


Come What May

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Anathema leads the Bohemians, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Aziraphale as the Writer, Beelzebub rules the Moulin Rouge, Crowley as the Courtesan, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Gabriel as the Duke, Historical Inaccuracy, Human AU, Illness, M/M, Other, Prostitution, Rating May Change, Sex, Tags May Change, genderfluidity, play rehearsals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 52,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24040309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: Fleeing his lonely life in London, aspiring writer Aziraphale arrives in Paris drawn by the promise of freedom, beauty, truth and love. When he meets Anathema and her crew of bohemian revolutionaries, Aziraphale finds himself swept up in their plan to put on a play in the city's notorious night club, the Moulin Rouge.With nothing to lose, Aziraphale agrees to pitch their ideas to the Serpent of Eden, the Moulin Rouge's most sought after courtesan. But meeting Crowley changes everything, propelling them both into an affair that will have far reaching consequences for them both.Moulin Rouge/human AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 146
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been obsessing over this AU idea for months. It wouldn't let me go so I started to write, and here we are...
> 
> If you're familiar with the film, you'll know what to expect. If you're not, please heed the tags and proceed with caution.

_1899, Paris_

Aziraphale stands just outside the station, looking around in fascination at the city sprawling in every direction. The smoke from the train that brought him here still clings to his coat. There’s a stray dog chewing on something unidentifiable close by, and the sky is grey as steel, but Aziraphale sees none of the dirt and the squalor his father warned him about. In fact, Paris isn’t anything like he’s been led to believe and a lot more like the visions he's been having in his dreams for years. The city has been calling to him for so long and now that he's finally here Aziraphale is momentarily paralysed by the magnitude of his daring. 

Equipped with an approved array of respectable places to stay, Aziraphale fetches the list from deep in his pocket where it was placed before he left London. He hasn’t the faintest idea where any of them might be, being far too excited on the journey to do any of the preparation or planning he now realises might have been quite helpful. He is just wondering where he might find such thing as a map when there's a cry close at hand. 

‘Watch out!’

Alarmed, Aziraphale turns just in time to see the bags he placed down mere moments ago making off at speed in the hands of a rascal. Before he can even think of taking chase, another individual has launched themselves at the thief, sending him sprawling. Recovering quickly, the ruffian hurries away leaving the bags he had attempted to steal on the pavement along with the hero who had saved them.

‘Well done, Newt!’ A woman is running towards the man on the ground, helping him to his feet before she makes a grab for the discarded bags. ‘Sir, are these yours?’

And so it is that Aziraphale finds himself being presented with his own luggage by a witch, or at least that's the immediate assumption he makes based on her attire. 

‘Why yes, I…’

The witch smiles at him. 

'Anathema,' she says, 'And that's Newt.' 

The young man, Newt, is dusting himself down looking no worse for wear for his exertions. He’s such a slight creature and the woman beside him so extraordinary that Aziraphale finds himself quite a loss for words. They are two of the most unlikely heroes he has ever seen. 

‘You really should be more careful, sir,’ says the woman, ‘Lots of light fingers around here.’

She has an accent but her French is flawless. Aziraphale hopes his is up to the task.

‘Duly noted. I would have been quite at a loss without my cases. How can I thank you? Both of you?’

He thinks of the small sum of money he has stashed away in the same case as his typewriter. It suddenly seems the height of foolishness to have stored the notes along with his only other possession of value.

‘Think nothing of it,’ say Anathema, 'Unless…have you come a long way? Might you be looking for something to eat before you travel on?’

Aziraphale cannot think of a finer way to show his appreciation, buying lunch is really the least he can do. 

Anathema chooses the eatery, orders the food. She is a woman who knows what she wants it seems. Aziraphale finds he is quite spellbound by her. 

'So,' she asks, once their food has arrived, 'What brings you to Paris, Aziraphale?' 

She has a glass of wine in one hand while the other is wrapped around Newt’s. Aziraphale finds he keeps glancing at where their hands are joined then looking away, unable to stop himself. Anathema's brazen enjoyment of her meal and her open affection for Newt are making him feel strangely flustered. 

‘I…I suppose I came here to learn.’

‘To learn?’ 

Anathema is spearing him with the kind of direct look that Aziraphale is not at all accustomed to. Under her scrunity, he picks at the crust of his bread, breaking it into crumbs on his plate. The last thing he wants is for the others to notice that he's eaten more than them already. 

‘To learn and to write,’ he amends.

Anathema’s lips quirk into a smile.

‘You're a writer?’

Aziraphale feels patches of colours bloom high in his cheeks. He did not expect to have to justify his appearance in the city to anyone quite so soon.

‘I'd like to be. What I mean to say is I'd like to find something worth writing about. Something truthful, something beautiful. And I thought Paris might be the place to do just that.’

‘Ah,’ says Newt who up until this point has been too busy focusing on his food to participate in the conversation. He exchanges a meaningful look with Anathema who nods with apparent satisfaction. They seem to understand what Aziraphale is trying to say which is more than a little baffling, certainly no one at home had understood his desire to uproot himself for so flimsy a reason. He’d heard the sniggers, seen the looks of derision. Neither Newt nor Anathema look remotely surprised by his admission, however. Indeed they appear rather approving.

‘Where are you staying?’ Anathema asks.

‘I haven’t actually got that far,’ Aziraphale admits, ‘But I have some recommendations.’

Anathema deftly relieves him of his list the moment it comes within reach. Her dark eyes scan the page, not even reaching half way down before she is crumpling the sheet of paper and tossing it over her shoulder. Aziraphale makes a muted sound of protest which Anathema roundly ignores. Within seconds she has commanded that their remaining food be parcelled up (they did order rather a lot), and she is pushing her chair away from the table. Newt stands the moment Anathema does and, just as it seems they are about to leave Aziraphale with nothing but the bill, Anathema turns back.

‘Come on then.’

Aziraphale blinks up at her. He’s not at all sure what’s happening. Anathema returns his look of confusion with naked impatience.

‘You want something to write about, yes? Then come with us. You won’t find anything worth your time round here.’

She does not wait for Aziraphale’s answer before turning and making her way out of the restaurant with such single minded purpose that Aziraphale realises he’s in danger of losing her if he so much as hesitates. 

‘So, what kind of a writer are you?’

Anathema and Newt have led him into Montmatre and Aziraphale has been gazing around him wide eyed. Respectability may be in short supply but there is colour and life and music here, and he is falling rapidly under its spell.

‘Aziraphale?’ Anathema prompts, bumping his elbow with her own, ‘What kind of things do you write? Songs?’

She has noticed his preoccupation with the accordion player, weaving along to the rhythm of his tune.

‘Oh, heavens no, I’m…well, I suppose you could call me a poet.’

Aziraphale decides not to mention that no one else has ever called him such. In fact, he’s only read his poems aloud to two people. The memory of their respective reactions still has the power to make him wince.

‘A poet,’ says Anathema, ‘That could work. What genre do you favour? What kind of style?’

They are moving deeper through the narrow streets, Newt leading the way while Anathema continues her interrogation. Aziraphale glances back, wondering how he will find his way alone should he need to.

‘Um, I've experimented with a great many different styles and topics,’ he says, wondering why it feels as if Anathema’s questions have some hidden importance, she certainly does not sound like someone who is simply making conversation, ‘I can’t say that I’ve found the one that I am best suited to quite yet.’

Newt has come to a stop up ahead and is waiting for them to catch up. Aziraphale tries to pick up the pace but the box containing his typewriter is awfully heavy. Anathema swipes the smaller case, the one with his clothing and a few books inside and begins to carry it for him.

‘What about love?’ she asks, ‘Have you ever written about that?’

‘I…’ Aziraphale can feel his face growing rather hot. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had much experience of love.’

‘But you believe in it?’

Anathema has come to a complete halt now and is staring at him hard as if trying to divine the answer from his soul before he has spoken.

‘Love?’ Aziraphale repeats, trying not to think about how pink his cheeks and ears must be, ‘Above all things I believe in love.’

Oh, how he longs to be able to capture all he believes love to be in words. The full and spectacular glory of it, the transcendence, the divine beauty. For years now, he has been passionately, hopelessly, unfashionably in love with the world around him. And though he has tried to tell himself that this is more than enough, Aziraphale cannot help but feel that his attempts to capture love in verse fall rather short for one simple reason: he has never been in love with another person before. This does not feel like something he should share with someone he has only just met, however, even if they do seem rather adept at pulling truths from him at will.

‘Aziraphale,’ says Anathema, who is at last smiling at him again, ‘I do believe you’re going to fit right in.’

‘It’s called absinthe,’ Anathema says, an hour or so later, pouring glasses for herself, Aziraphale, Newt and their friends, Tracy and Shadwell. Shadwell bears more than a passing resemblance to the thief outside the station, the rather sheepish grin he had given upon being introduced doing nothing to assuage Aziraphale’s suspicions. A rather intimidating gentleman by the name of Raven lurks on the periphery of the group, the only one of them who had not immediately descended upon the food they had brought. He guards the doorway to the drafty loft which seems to serve as the sleeping quarters for most, if not all, of the group. 

‘A toast!’ Anathema cries, ‘To the bohemian revolution!’

‘To our play!’ adds Newt.

‘To the greatest love story ever told,’ Tracy adds, ‘And the writer who will bring it to life!’

At this everyone looks at Aziraphale who has the sudden urge to bring everything he has eaten back into the light. He certainly doesn’t remember volunteering to write a play. They’d mentioned that they were actors and that they were trying to put something together in a great hurry for a new theatre, but Aziraphale had been a bit too distracted finishing the apple tart to do more than nod and look politely interested.

‘We need it to exemplify the four bohemian ideals,’ he remembered Anathema explaining. She had shown him the plans the group had put together so far which was hardly more than a list of concepts. Truth, beauty, freedom and love were written in capitals at the top of the page while scrawled below were India, exotic, spectacular followed by a series of disparate plot points, most of which were illegible. The word tantric had been underlined three times. Aziraphale had handed the paper back without asking for further clarification and at no point, he is absolutely sure on this, had anyone actually offered him the job of taking these notes and turning them into a work of art.

Aziraphale looks around at the faces of these strangers, all of them waiting for him to make some sort of commitment to this endeavour. Letting down these new acquaintances should be easy but as Anathema smiles at him in encouragement Aziraphale can't help thinking of his family, all the people back home who think so little of him and expect even less. He did come here to write and here’s the invitation, shabby and unexpected and real.

Aziraphale raises his glass.

‘To Paris,’ he offers, weakly.

Everyone cheers, glad to be able to bump glasses at last and drink. Aziraphale eyes the bright green liquid in his own warily before raising it to his lips. Just what has he got himself into?


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale groans then, realising he is alone, groans even louder. It does not provide as much satisfaction as one would hope. 

Somehow he manages to stagger down the hallway to the bathroom and glug down enough water from the barely functioning tap to at least clear his mouth of the foul aftertaste of what has to be the world’s most potent drink. He blames the absinthe for everything. Nearly everything. He’s pretty sure he agreed to write the play before he'd taken a sip. And didn’t Anathema say something about needing to present his ideas at a place called the Moulin Rouge this very evening? Good God in Heaven. He barely manages to make it across the room before he’s heaving the contents of his stomach over the rim of the rusty bathtub.

An hour later and none of the bohemians have made even a cursory appearance though Aziraphale is pretty sure they’re all in the same building somewhere. He could just leave, forget these strange people and their even stranger offer, pretend none of it ever happened. He’s under no obligation to stay and help. None at all.

He worries and considers and bites the skin around his nails for a while before beginning to type a farewell note. He will apologise for not being the man they require and he'll wish Anathema the very best in her endeavour. It's not as if they'll miss him. Aziraphale begins his letter but he's only got as far as the third line before he's ripping the page from the reel and scrunching it into a ball. It’s ridiculous. It’s utterly absurd. But the truth is Aziraphale wants to write this play. He wants to create something big and bold and beautiful, something London society would never have allowed him to create. Aziraphale wants it so badly in fact that after a while he forgets the stabbing pain in his head, forgets he hasn’t eaten, forgets that neither his poetry nor he are anything special. He writes and the hours slip by. 

Anathema rises around noon, disentangling herself from the sheets and from Newt. She leaves him drooling into their only pillow and gets on with the business of getting herself washed and dressed. Borrowing one of Newt’s shirts and slipping into the skirt with the rip she hasn’t bothered to fix yet, Anathema runs her fingers through her hair not bothering to find a brush. She’ll have to dress up later, no need for any such effort just yet. Her only nice dress is folded over the back of a nearby chair. Anathema smooths the dark blue material fondly, checking for any marks that might need attending to before this evening. It had served its purpose well the previous day. Meeting Aziraphale might have appeared a stroke of incredible good fortune to anyone else but Anathema knows better. She had checked the cards carefully, after all. Cast a couple of spells too, just to make sure. Still, these things are never certain and Anathema is aware that she might have some work to do to ensure things proceed as planned.

Anathema locates her glasses and views her surroundings with clarity once more. The loft tends to look a lot better when the details are blurred, and it's no surprise to find the previous evening has left the place in quite the state. Behind a tatty curtain come Shadwell's snores. No sign of Tracy though the scent of her perfume lingers in the air. Anathema yawns and stretches, glad that they'd had the foresight to put Aziraphale to bed in his own room. It was usually Raven’s but he’d begrudgingly agreed to find an alternative for one night to ensure their writer at least had a modicum of privacy as he came to terms with the reality of being in their midst. 

Even before she’s knocked on the door to Aziraphale’s room, Anathema can hear the click-clack of typewriter keys. She hesitates, listening, warmed by a feeling of smug satisfaction. The others had been so doubtful. Maybe now they'd trust in her powers. 

‘Morning, Aziraphale,’ Anathema calls out, ‘Need anything?’

The clicking stops. There’s the soft pad of footsteps and then the door is pulled open revealing a very dishevelled, rather queasy looking Englishman. He is holding a sheaf of papers to his chest. 

‘Could you…?’

He holds out the paper. Anathema takes it from him slowly, noticing both the corrections in pencil and Aziraphale’s miserable expression.

‘It’s not…’ he says, his now free hands twisting around themselves, ‘I don’t think I’ve quite captured the…’

He gives a vague sort of shrug and hangs his head. If he was a colour he’d be palest beige, the kind of shade the eye looks past as it seeks something of value. What the man needs is a shot of confidence, earned or not. Anathema lowers her eyes to the pages in her hands, preparing to read quickly and lie well if needs be.

‘It’s no good,’ Aziraphale says before she has even reached the end of the first page, ‘I can make changes, of course, but I’ll understand if you wish to consider asking someone else…’

Anathema shushes him without looking up. She reads five pages in total though there must be at least twenty in her hand. Five is more than enough. The warmth in her chest has turned fiery. They might actually pull this off. 

‘You know,’ she says, tucking the papers neatly back in order, ‘I think he’s going to really like you.’

Aziraphale, who has clearly been expecting some devastating criticism, takes a moment to croak out the word, ‘Who?’

Anathema pushes her glasses up her nose, her lips curling into a half smile.

‘The Serpent of Eden, of course,’ she says, fully aware of how infuriatingly mysterious she is being, ‘Impress him and we’ve got our shot.’

‘And our money!’ adds Tracy. She is walking down the corridor towards them carrying an armful of clothing. She shoulders her way past Aziraphale and dumps them unceremoniously over his unmade bed. This done, she turns back to view Aziraphale with a critical eye.

‘Now don’t take this the wrong way, love, but we only get one shot at this and no one’s going to believe you’re a patron of the Moulin Rouge if you toddle along looking like that.’

Aziraphale looks down at his rumpled waistcoat and wrinkled trousers.

‘I do have other clothes,’ he protests somewhat half-heartedly.

‘I’m sure you do, dear,’ says Tracy with the merest hint of a chuckle, ‘Let’s see what we can rustle up between us, eh? I’ve managed to pinch a few things from Raven which I think might suit you and Shadwell’s been known to wear a smart thing or two in his time but don’t tell him I told you.’

Aziraphale shoots Anathema a pleading look which she pretends not to see. She’s all too happy to leave him in Tracy’s clutches for a while. They’ve still got plenty of time to get ready and if she’s very lucky, Newt won’t have even left their bed yet.

Aziraphale fusses with the sleeves of Raven’s best suit. It’s a miracle it fits as well as it does but it’s not his and Aziraphale feels self-conscious and far too visible. His family might claim they come from money and try to conduct themselves as such but he’s never owned anything quite as fine as this. He’s wearing his own shoes at least, polished by his own hand. Shadwell’s coat completes the outfit, Aziraphale’s poetry folded and safely stored in the pocket. He checks and re-checks that it’s still there, fidgets in his borrowed clothing until Tracy tells him that looking so uncomfortable will give him away.

Anathema and the rest of the bohemians, dressed up in their own version of best, are to accompany him to the Moulin Rouge. They all seem very familiar with the place, so familiar that it takes Aziraphale several attempts before he is able to get any of them to explain to him what it is and where exactly they’re going. When Shadwell realises that Aziraphale has never heard of the place, his eyes go so wide so fast it’s alarming.

‘Never heard of it?’ Shadwell questions, ‘Something wrong with you, laddie?’

‘Oh hush,’ says Tracy, ‘He’s come all the way from London. Can’t expect a nice English boy to have heard of such things. The Moulin Rouge, dear, is…well, I suppose you’d call it a nightclub.’

Raven, who Aziraphale has come to realise is a man of few words, snorts.

‘How would you describe it?’ Tracy asks him, politely.

‘It’s a den of sin.’

Raven seems unable to hold back his grin, the glint of his teeth making Aziraphale feel more nervous than ever.

‘Well, yes, naturally it is that,’ says Tracy as if this is far too obvious a fact to have spelt out, ‘Anathema, a little help?’

Anathema, once again leading the group, turns and continues to walk backwards so she can stay ahead of them.

‘It’s where the rich and powerful go to play with the young and beautiful of the underworld,’ she says, ‘They call them the fallen and they’re ruled over by Beelzebub.’

‘Don’t mess with them,’ says Newt quietly as if Aziraphale had any intention of messing with anyone who goes by the name of a prince of hell. In fact, he’s not at all sure he’s up for the night’s adventures. The rest of the bohemians are propelling him onwards, however, and events seem to have taken on a momentum all of their own.

‘It’s Beelzebub who wants to put on a play, something proper, respectable,’ Anathema continues, ‘And if we’re to make sure that it’s _our_ play then you need to convince the Serpent of Eden to endorse you as the writer.’

‘Right,’ says Aziraphale, trying to sound at least a trifle more confident than he feels, ‘And this Serpent?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it all planned out,’ says Anathema, ‘A private meeting with just the two of you. You’ll find he’s quite sympathetic to the bohemian cause so it should be fairly straightforward. Introduce yourself, read some of your poems, be charming.’

‘And don’t let us down, right?’ adds Raven.

Aziraphale hopes that he has imagined the note of threat in Raven’s tone. And if he hasn’t, well, all he has to do is charm the Serpent of Eden. Aziraphale pulls fretfully at his borrowed waistcoat. What could possibly go wrong?

The Moulin Rouge beckons. A towering windmill marks the entrance, its stationary sails glittering with lights that beckon like stars promising a very particular kind of night. Aziraphale and the bohemians join a procession of people, all of them rich (or so Anathema assures him), all heading towards the music Aziraphale can already feel as well as hear, a beat that seems to vibrate deep in his bones.

Once they reach the entrance, it is clear that the bohemians are no strangers to those working the doors. Greetings are called out, Raven disappearing almost at once, and Aziraphale is in danger of being swept along with the crowd and losing the others completely.

‘Best to stick with us, dear,’ says Tracy, taking him by the hand and pulling him away from the main crush of people all clamouring to move through to the dance hall, ‘Or heaven knows what might become of you.’

She squeezes his hand in a motherly sort of way before letting him go. Aziraphale has the strangest desire to ask her to keep hold of him.

As a group they move further into the spectacle, Aziraphale’s eyes widening in a futile attempt to take it all in. A burst of flames passes overhead as a juggler hurls fiery batons high into the air. Two women, perhaps twins, both entwined by the same enormous white snake, writhe beneath an archway of paper flowers. Aziraphale finds it hard to look away from the snake, its eyes as pink as it's forked tongue, but there are other things to see. Everywhere swishing skirts, high heels, corsets and lace. Bare arms glisten, fingers beckon, bright lips laugh and whisper, voices sing and seduce. 

Everywhere Aziraphale looks, there is some new temptation on display. In every corner, more colour, more sensuality, more heat. It's dizzying and should be terrifying but instead Aziraphale feels a curious lightness spreading through him. It is as if the heaviness of the day, of his entire life, is being lifted from him. The louder the music becomes, the closer the dancer’s press, the more Aziraphale finds that there is no room left in him for doubt or worry.

Anathema is the next to be drawn away from the group. Aziraphale sees her dancing with two others, the three of them pressed so close together that they seem to have fused into one unit. He is still watching when one of the dancers twists a handful of Anathema’s long, dark hair in her hand and uses it to pull her close enough to kiss. Aziraphale looks abruptly away, his gaze landing on Newt who does not appear in the least bit concerned. Newt is not dancing but his upper body sways a bit to the music and there is a soft, dreamy smile on his face. On his other side, Tracy is dancing around Shadwell, his eyes following her hungrily, while beyond them suits and dresses give way to the costumes and the bright, brilliance of the fallen. They weave in amongst the patrons, alluring and unmistakeable. Aziraphale tries to concentrate on a single one of them but it’s impossible as each one is pushed and pulled by the rhythm of the music and a secret urgency all their own.

Aziraphale is just beginning to think about perhaps doing something daring along the lines of removing his coat when Anathema reappears beside him.

‘This way,’ she says, taking hold of Aziraphale’s elbow and somehow managing to clear a path for them through the dancers.

At the back of the room are a series of dark booths most of which appear to be occupied by various gentlemen. Aziraphale catches sight of top hats, polished canes and a monocle or two before he finds himself taking a seat around a table where bottles of wine are already waiting along with Tracy and Shadwell who have somehow beaten them to the best seats. Tracy is out of breath and fanning herself with her hand.

‘I used to be able to keep up with them,’ she says, ‘Could have given any one of these fallen a run for their money in my day, if you can believe it.’

Shadwell makes a gruff sound which sounds suspiciously like ‘harlot’. Tracy bats her eyelashes at him and gives him a coy smile.

‘Why are we here?’ Aziraphale asks, meaning why have they left the dance floor? It wasn't as if he'd been close to forgetting he can't dance but it had not seemed to matter very much. No one had been interested in him, after all, but he’d been amongst it all and he’s having a hard time understanding why they’ve all removed themselves to this dark corner. He realises too late that Anathema is eyeing him shrewdly. It is far too late to edit his expression into anything less transparent, she has seen everything. When she reaches out to him, patting him on the hand, her smile is half amused, half compassionate. 

‘Eyes on the prize,’ she says, ‘And trust me, you’ll want a good view.’

‘Of what?’

Anathema answers by casting her gaze back out to where the stage awaits. As the fallen vanish from the dance floor all colour seems to leave with them. A loud silence grows in their wake, expectant and unsettling all at once. When the lights dim, Aziraphale is leaning forwards even before he realises that glittering confetti is falling from the ceiling. Everyone looks up, the entire audience holding their breath. They wait, all of them, long enough for discomfort to creep in around the edges of anticipation, but no one moves, no one speaks. And when at last the limelight picks out a single figure suspended high above them, no one looks away.

Aziraphale, far below, clutches the table in front of him as his whole world tilts. _This is it_ , he thinks, his entire body thrumming with a fierce and unfamiliar kind of energy. His heart, the cause of so much of the misunderstanding and misery in his life, skips a beat and re-starts to a brand new rhythm.

_This is it_ , he thinks without knowing why or what it means. _That’s him_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say that I have no fixed posting schedule for these chapters but I am aiming for regular updates. This is very much a give-me-something-to-focus-on-in-lockdown project and if it can be a diversion for anyone else then I am very glad. 
> 
> I have updated the tags to reassure anyone who might be worried about the ending so do check if that's important to you. 
> 
> And now, enter Crowley.

Crowley is no fan of heights. Looking down from his perch on the swing above the dance floor makes his heart stutter and his hands shake so he puts off the moment he will have to do so as long as possible. It works, adding to his mystique or some such bullshit. If Beelzebub wants him to make more eye contact, they can bloody well make sure he’s down at ground level.

Trouble is, the audience love it. They can all see him easily and they shell out more money when they are under the same collective delusion that they might be permitted, maybe this time, just this once, to touch.

Crowley leans back, sends the swing spinning. Effortless or so it must seem. He’s holding on with just one hand now, the other reaching back to brush the outstretched hands that want him. He’s done this routine so many times he can keep most of the fear locked away in the same place his other feelings go, the ones that get in the way, the ones that make no money. The real ones.

His costume this evening is another ridiculous affair. To call it a dress would be generous, his boots have more material, and it pinches under his arms. The corset is at least permitting him to draw in an approximation of the necessary requirement of oxygen, makes a nice change. Dagon has outdone herself in the dazzle department too, he sparkles every time he moves. His trademark long, red hair is pinned up and mostly hidden by a dark hat. He’ll remove it soon, fling it somewhere, shake his hair out and grin. And the crowd will cheer. Give the people what they want and all that. Never mind that there will only be one person getting it from now until Crowley’s blackened heart gives out.

He’s here somewhere. Beelzebub’s only mentioned it a thousand times.

‘No mistakes tonight,’ they’d hissed, ‘And no going off script. This has got to be perfect. That Duke’s got to want you so badly he won’t care how much money I ask for in return.’

Yes, Crowley knows the deal that’s going to be made tonight and he’s well aware of the part he has to play. With reluctance that no one but he is aware of, Crowley returns fully to his body for the next part of the act. He tried not paying attention once before and he almost broke his collarbone, not an experience he’s keen to repeat. The moment he has safely dismounted from the swing however, he lets his mind loose once more. He can do the rest of the routine in his sleep (does occasionally and wakes angry at the waste of a perfectly good dream). 

He’s almost reached the steps up to the stage when someone lunges for him, takes hold of his arm, won’t let go. Time stops, reality condensing to the ugly, unwelcome grip around his wrist. It’s not as if Crowley hasn’t been touched everywhere in every way but there’s something about being grabbed mid-performance that makes him want to bite and snarl. Occasionally he cannot suppress it and his true self comes roaring forth. He pays for it later, of course. Beelzebub does not tolerate lapses of control from anyone and from Crowley least of all. So Crowley forces himself to relax, deftly shaking himself free. If his smile is too sharp as he resumes his flirtatious progress up to the stage only those nearest will notice.

On stage now and safely out of touching range, Crowley is able to look out across the sea of faces. There’s no point trying to pick out the Duke. He’ll be at the back. Private booth, champagne, barely resisting the urge to touch himself most likely. Crowley unpins his hat and with a deft flick of his wrist sends it into the crowd at the precise moment the song ends. A small cluster forms around it. Punches are thrown. Crowley looks away. This is his life, but not for long.

His costume change requires another pair of hands though Crowley would have preferred those hands to belong to someone other than Beez who tears his dress off him like it has done them harm in a previous life. At least Dagon, who is hardly an enthusiastic assistant, doesn’t grip him hard enough to bruise.

Hidden from the crowd, they can hear them, the sound of their anticipation building as they wait for Crowley’s reappearance. Idiots. Delusional if they believe they have a chance while the Duke is in attendance.

‘So,’ says Crowley, wincing as Beez forces him into a tighter corset, ‘Which one is he?’

Beez scowls. They are not a believer in questions, or answers. If Crowley didn’t bring in so much money he’s pretty sure he would not be permitted to speak in their presence at all.

‘He’s the prick in the tux looking at you like he wants your soul as well as your body. Can’t miss him.’

Crowley tries out a laugh. It sounds passable.

‘Sounds like I’m in for a real treat.’

Beez’s eyes flash. If possible they look even more murderous.

‘Do not screw this up, Crowley. I’m warning you. This man has more money than God. You know the situation we’re in.’

Crowley barely manages to resist the temptation to roll his eyes as Beez rises up on their toes to fix his hair.

‘When have I ever let you down?’

‘There’s always a first time,’ Beez snaps, ‘Just remember where you came from and how quickly you’d be back there if a single damn thing goes wrong.’

They glare at him until Crowley plasters on a false but winning smile. Beez does not thaw one bit.

‘Save it for the Duke.’

The crowd are getting rowdier now. Crowley has very nearly kept them waiting too long.

‘What’s his type then?’ he asks, quickly, ‘Wilting flower? Nervy virgin? Smouldering temptress?’

The corner of Beez’s mouth twitches as Crowley adjusts his expression and body language for each persona.

‘Smouldering temptress,’ they say, all but pushing Crowley back on stage, ‘Now get out there and get our fucking money.’

Crowley teases his way over to the booths where only the richest patrons sit, the ones who know full well what it takes and how much it costs for him to come to them. There are precisely two contenders for the part of the Duke and as Anathema and her gaggle of drunken bohemians are currently harassing one of them, Crowley does not find it difficult to locate his target.

What he does not know is that moments before, while attempting to slink away and leave Aziraphale to his mission, Anathema had inadvertently upended a tray of drinks onto the lap of the Duke and was at that moment admonishing him for causing her to trip. In the chaos that follows, as the rest of the bohemians do their best to pull Anathema away before the Duke’s guard can do his worst, the Duke himself is far too distracted to notice his prize zoning in on the man sitting alone and terrified in the next booth.

Aziraphale has very much noticed the Serpent’s approach and does not seem able to do anything other than stare stupidly. He is acutely aware of the snug fit of his suit, his messy curls, his general dowdiness. What on earth is he going to say? How will he even speak when his mouth has gone so dry he can hardly swallow? He very much wishes Anathema and the others had not left. They’ve met the Serpent before, or so they had intimated, surely they are better placed to make their case than he. Aziraphale hastily tries to recall their last minute instructions but all he recalls is Anathema saying, ‘Almost forgot. Crowley. His name is Crowley.’

‘Well,’ says the Serpent who Aziraphale must remember to call Crowley, addressing the crowd who are following his every move, ‘I’ve made my choice.’

He turns around and points straight at Aziraphale who feels a sudden sharp pain slice through his chest but then Crowley smiles, just for him, and the pain blossoms into something quite, quite different.

‘Dance with me,’ Crowley says, offering his hand. His expression is softer than Aziraphale was expecting, there’s something a little tentative in his golden eyes, something that does not quite fit with the performer he was moments ago.

‘I…I can’t dance.’

It’s the first thing Aziraphale can think of to say. He can feel his whole face growing hot and he wishes fervently that Crowley would stop looking at him. He does not appear to even blink.

‘Someone’s got to dance with me,’ he says, ‘I’d prefer it was you.’

Crowley beckons him over and smiles again. It’s a small smile, almost shy, and Aziraphale finds he is standing before he has really thought it through.

‘Forgive me,’ he says, taking Crowley’s slim fingers in his, ‘I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.’

Crowley’s smile widens.

‘Not possible,’ he says as he pulls Aziraphale onto the dance floor.

The Duke’s hand tightens around Crowley’s and when Crowley pulls him closer, the man clings to him, his inexperience all too obvious. He is nothing like Crowley imagined with his cherubic face and his curls so blonde they shine white under the stage lights. Beez had painted a vividly different picture. They are renowned for having people accurately assessed and valued to the nearest franc within seconds of meeting them but Crowley knows better than anyone that a person can vary wildly with the situation. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s reduced a person to an unrecognisable wreck of themselves but it does usually require a lot more sex and a lot less chaste hand holding.

‘Oh,’ the Duke says as he stumbles again. Even his ears are pink now. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I really am a terrible dancer.’

Crowley, liar extraordinaire though he may be, does not think that there is anything he can say to refute this. The man is barely moving and he’s still managing to trip over his own feet.

‘There are other ways to find a rhythm,’ he says instead, drawing the Duke towards him so that their bodies are suddenly pressed together. The Duke makes a little sound, a half gasp of shock that Crowley can imagine all too easily in another context.

‘I knew it,’ Crowley purrs, ‘We fit.’

The Duke stammers something entirely unintelligible and Crowley suppresses a victorious grin. This is almost too easy. What the hell was Beez so worried about?

The song ends, a new one begins and Crowley continues to hold the Duke close to him. It’s not slow dance music and everyone around them is dancing far more exuberantly but Crowley isn’t interested in anyone else and he wants to make sure the Duke knows it. After a minute or so of gentle swaying, the Duke clears his throat.

‘I really am delighted to be involved in the show. I should have said so before, don’t know what I was…’

He trails off but all Crowley has to do is lift one eyebrow and somehow the Duke finds the will to carry on.

‘Not that it’s a done deal, of course. I’m not assuming you’ll like what I do.’

Crowley’s eyes widen at this. He has no power or agency in this deal, no options at all, and yet the Duke is behaving as if he’s actually nervous that Crowley might refuse him. He’s probably a right bastard beneath the surface and yet Crowley can’t help but find his nervousness ever so slightly adorable. 

‘Oh, angel,’ he says, smoothing over his surprise, ‘I’m sure I will.’

The time has come for him to finish the show. Crowley sends the Duke on his way with a wink before weaving through the dance floor back towards that god awful swing. Perhaps he can get the Duke to request that he remains with his feet firmly on the ground for the entirety of this new play. The backstage crew can’t be trusted with the opening and closing of a curtain let alone anything more perilous and if the Duke is sufficiently worried about his investment, maybe he can be persuaded to insist upon certain precautions. Smitten as the Duke may be, Crowley isn’t fool enough to think that anyone would protect him for anything other than profit.

The finale of the show and he’s got everyone’s attention. Somewhere below him, the Duke is looking up in awe. Crowley knows this without even trying to check. He’s done what he needs to do, just got to make it to the finish line. Crowley tries to hold onto this thought even as the spasming tightness in his chest that he’s been trying to ignore grows more intense. It can’t happen here, not now, not while he’s suspended on a ridiculous fucking swing and everything is on the line.

Crowley doesn’t mean to look down but the instinct to check just how far he has to fall is unavoidable. Panicking, he tries to take a breath but his lungs feel solid and the air has nowhere to go. He tries again, throws his head back. His pulse is thundering in his ears, louder than the music that must still be playing.

Black spots burst in front of Crowley’s eyes. He has forgotten now where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing, his brain shutting down everything that isn’t _take-a-breath-take-a-breath-take-a-fucking-breath!_

His grip on the swing failing, Crowley is unconscious even before he starts to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our writer's poetry belongs neither to him nor to me. Credit to those who write much better than I (Elton John and Bernie Taupin in this case).

‘I don’t think I should…’

Aziraphale tries to dig his heels in and slow the group down but with Anathema on one side of him, Tracy on the other and Newt at his back, there’s very little he can do to resist.

‘We don’t even know whether Crowley’s alright,’ he protests, that terrible fall replaying over and over through his mind. Someone had caught him, heaven alone knew how, and the Moulin Rouge’s owner, Beelzebub, a terrifying creature, had emerged to spikily reassure everyone that Crowley was fine, seemingly insinuating that it had all been part of the act. Whatever the truth may be, Aziraphale is certain he will see Crowley fall again and again in his nightmares for weeks.

‘You’re the perfect person to check on him,’ Anathema asserts, driving him on, ‘If we lose momentum now Beez might very well pull the plug on the whole thing.’

‘She’s right, dear,’ says Tracy, ‘If Crowley wants you to write the play then we’re all in the money.’

Anathema tuts and Tracy adds, quickly, ‘And of course we’ll get our gloriously bohemian play.’

Aziraphale waits for Newt to chip in but he seems to feel that all the important points have been made.

Together they lead him to a courtyard where Aziraphale is confronted by the most surreal sight of his life. An elephant, enormous and extravagantly decorated, emerges from the darkness to tower over them. Its ivory painted tusks are decorated with gold to match the intricate metalwork that adorns the creature’s head. To the side steps lead upwards, curving out of sight.

‘Quite the sight, isn’t it?’ says Anathema, ‘Come on, nearly there.’

If Aziraphale had harboured any lingering doubts as to the exact nature of Crowley’s profession, both the bizarre exterior and decadent interior of this strangest of rooms put these entirely to rest.

Inside the elephant, candles have been lit, fruit and cheese has been laid out and there’s a bottle of champagne on ice. Everywhere Aziraphale looks he sees lace and silk in shades of black and red. Against the wall, most obvious of all, is an enormous bed piled high with soft blankets. Otherwise the room is empty, Crowley conspicuously absent.

‘Wow!’ Tracy’s many bangles rattle as she spins around, her eyes huge. ‘Never thought I’d actually get to see inside.’

‘No time to gawk,’ Anathema says, smartly, though she too is looking a little awe struck, ‘Aziraphale, you know what to do.’

‘I’m not sure I…’ Aziraphale begins but Anathema doesn’t want to hear it.

She straightens his bow tie, tugs down his waistcoat, and then views him through narrowed eyes. Aziraphale cannot help thinking that she is disappointed with what she sees but a second later she is chivvying Tracy and Newt back out the way they had come. 

Alone, Aziraphale casts awkwardly around for somewhere to sit but there are no chairs only the bed and he thinks he would prefer to stand for the rest of his life rather than move even a step closer to it.

The lights of Paris beckon him to the other end of the room and Aziraphale finds himself approaching a narrow balcony. The night air is cold, the thin lace curtains rippling either side of him. They are almost transparent. Even if they were closed the occupants would hardly be afforded any privacy. Aziraphale reaches out and rubs the sheer fabric between his fingers. How many people have stood where he is standing? Aziraphale bites his lip, his thoughts taking him in a dangerous direction. He wishes Crowley would join him, to alleviate this anxious wait but mostly so Aziraphale can reassure himself that Crowley really is alright.

When a door opens, Aziraphale senses the change and turns, heart already in his throat. Crowley enters the room, a vision in black. He is wearing a corset, suspenders and a wrap of delicate lace which falls to the floor, the darkness drawing attention to the loose waves of his flaming hair. Aziraphale’s heart is beating that new rhythm and he’s trying to remember how to speak when Crowley notices he has company.

‘You’re here.'

Crowley looks startled yet somehow manages to sound as if he’s glad, as if he’s the one who’s been anxious to reunite. As he closes the door behind him, moves into the room, Aziraphale wonders if he is imagining the weariness of Crowley’s movements, though after the performance he has just put on he surely must be tired. He looks a shade paler too, but perhaps it is a trick of the dim light. He does not appear to be injured in any way, it would be hard to hide any serious hurt in that outfit. Whatever the case, Aziraphale should definitely stop staring.

‘Are you..?’ Aziraphale clears his throat, tries to clear his head. ‘I was worried.’

‘Have you been waiting long?’ Crowley says, brushing past Aziraphale’s concern, ‘Let me make it up to you. Champagne?’

Aziraphale gets the distinct impression that Crowley doesn’t want to talk about what’s just happened. Perhaps it’s best just to move things along, say his piece, let Crowley sleep.

‘I’d rather get it over with, if it’s all the same to you.’

The bottle of champagne in Crowley’s hand falls back into the ice with a crunch. When he looks up, he’s smiling but his lips are thin.

‘Of course, I’ve made you wait long enough.’

Aziraphale twists his pinkie ring around his finger, tries to remember what he is here for, tries not to wonder why Crowley is walking with purpose over to the bed. When he sits, Aziraphale finds himself relaxing minutely but then Crowley pats the space beside him.

‘I’d rather remain standing, if that’s alright with you,’ says Aziraphale, a little hoarsely.

A look of naked surprise crosses Crowley’s face.

‘Oh,’ he says, pushing himself up once more.

‘You can stay sitting,’ Aziraphale says, hurriedly, feeling that he is tiring Crowley more with every awkward second that passes between them, ‘It’s…I’d prefer that.’

Crowley sinks back down on the bed. His eyes shine amber, extraordinary and unreadable.

‘Whatever you prefer,’ he says carefully. Aziraphale detects the tiniest thread of something beneath his calm tone, something that could almost be fear.

‘It won’t take long,’ he says, overcome by the desire to finish this and leave Crowley to rest. Imagining Crowley’s relief as he is falls back into the many pillows behind him calms Aziraphale enough for the words to rise inside him. The hopes of the bohemians are resting on him, he has to at least try.

‘I thought I’d read you some of my poetry,’ he says, ‘If that’s…would that be alright?’

Crowley quirks an eyebrow, crosses one long leg over the other. Aziraphale wishes he was wearing more clothes. He has the urge to take his off his own borrowed jacket and drape it over Crowley’s shoulders, take a blanket from the bed, tuck it round his bare feet.

‘Poetry?’ Crowley says, the word inflected with a touch of amusement, ‘Ah yes, something to get us in the mood. Go ahead, I’m listening.’

He is, Aziraphale can feel the tautening of his attention. The floor is his. Aziraphale swallows hard.

‘It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside.’

His voice shakes at first but with each word his courage grows. Soon the poetry is flowing from him like a river, and Crowley is staring up at him, mouth slightly open.

‘I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is, now you’re in the world.’

When the poem ends, there is a beat or two of silence, long enough for Aziraphale to start to worry that he’s got it all wrong, made a terrible mistake, before Crowley’s expression softens into something indescribably lovely. There is a hint of colour across his cheekbones now, the barest hint of pink.

‘Oh,’ he says, and the sound travels straight up Aziraphale’s spine, feather on bone, ‘Would you read another one for me?’

Aziraphale nods. His whole body feels lighter, like he might start floating on the current of Crowley’s admiration and never return to solid ground. He is three lines into his next poem when Crowley stands, walks slowly over to him approaching close enough for Aziraphale to borrow his breath to get to the end. At the last word, Crowley raises his hand and presses two fingers to Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale, startled beyond all reason by such an act of astonishing intimacy, stops breathing.

‘Your words,’ Crowley whispers, moving his hand so that he is cradling Aziraphale’s face, ‘Are as beautiful as you are.’

His kiss is the softest brush of lips. Aziraphale cannot help reaching for him, his hands finding Crowley’s waist and pulling him closer still. He wants those lips again, needs them. He has no idea what’s happening but he’s keen to find out. Crowley’s next kiss is deeper, his lips parting, the heat of his mouth making Aziraphale feel equal parts blissful and frantic. He is gripping Crowley so tightly he is suddenly afraid he might be hurting him.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry, getting carried away.’

‘Oh, angel,’ says Crowley, his voice low. He has one hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, as the other slides into his hair. ‘No need to be sorry. I’ve been waiting for you too.’

Aziraphale might have let out an undignified whimper at this had Crowley not kissed him again, soft, slow. Aziraphale can hardly stand it. His mind is scrambling to catch up but his heart, his heart is soaring.

Before he’s ready (he would never have been ready), Crowley is drawing back. He does not go far, Aziraphale's hands still on his hips. 

‘This is unbelievable.' 

Crowley says it almost to himself. There's a brightness in him that was entirely absent a few minutes ago. Aziraphale desperately wants to be the reason for this light, never wants it to dim. He is already leaning forwards, chasing another kiss.

‘What is?’

Crowley laughs, teasing Aziraphale by leaning back slightly.

‘That I’m falling in love,' he says, 'Falling in love with a handsome, talented Duke.’

‘Duke?’ Aziraphale repeats, as if the other descriptors were any less absurd when applied to him.

‘Not that the title’s important,’ says Crowley, moving closer again, smiling, ‘I prefer angel anyway.’

‘Good,’ says Aziraphale, smiling back, ‘Because I’m not a Duke.’

Crowley’s smile dies so fast, Aziraphale might have slapped it clean off his face.

‘Not a Duke?’

He begins to pull away, wriggling out of Aziraphale’s tight grip.

‘No,’ says Aziraphale, still not understanding the magnitude of what has happened, still hopeful, ‘I’m a writer. Anathema told me she’d arranged a meeting. With you. About the play?’

‘A _writer_?’ Crowley spits out the word like it’s poison, ‘Oh no, you’re not…’ Aziraphale sees panic in his face, in the way he presses a hand to his chest. ‘Fuck. Oh fuck. I’m going to kill that woman.’

Aziraphale steps forwards but Crowley turns sharply away from him, half doubles over then straightens up.

‘You need to go,’ he says, his voice flat, oddly breathless, ‘Right now.’ 

Aziraphale nods. It’s all he feels able to do. His lips feel wasp-stung tender, his heart too. He wants to apologise but Crowley has his back to him and the words won’t come. He has only taken three paces towards the door when the sound of voices from the other side cause him to halt. Crowley whirls around, his terror sharp and undisguised.

‘Hide!’

Aziraphale ducks down behind the trolley of refreshments just as the door opens.

‘I can assure you Duke…’ someone says.

‘Your assurances mean very little at this point, Beelzebub.’

This voice is loud, deep, impatient. Aziraphale does not need anyone to tell him that it belongs to the real Duke. He casts around for somewhere, anywhere else to go, but his gaze snags on Crowley standing in the centre of the room, covering himself up, breathing too fast.

‘Ah.’

The Duke steps into the room.

‘See,’ Beelzebub says, ‘As promised.’

Their voice buzzes with warning and it is all too obvious who is in trouble.

‘Were you looking for me?’ Crowley asks, innocent as anything. If he can feel the shadow of Aziraphale’s touch the way Aziraphale can feel his, there is no telling it.

‘I am not accustomed to having to search for what's mine,’ says the Duke, ‘It will not happen again.’

‘No,’ Beelzebub reiterates, ‘It will not.’

Aziraphale can only see the Duke’s feet under the cart he is crouched behind, the points of his highly polished shoes look lethal. Crowley, barefoot and unbearably vulnerable, steps towards him.

‘Let me take your coat, dear Duke,’ he says, ‘Goodnight, Beez.’

It is a dismissal and Beelzebub takes their leave, closing the door with a sharp snap. With no escape route evident, Aziraphale has no idea how Crowley is planning on getting them both through this. His muscles are taut with the urge to run, his heart hammering in his chest.

‘So,’ says the Duke, ‘Not a promising start but I am a generous man so let’s put it behind us. I must say, you put on a quite a show.’

‘Thank you,’ says Crowley, though Aziraphale is not at all sure the Duke meant to praise, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

The silk and honey of his voice makes Aziraphale’s stomach churn. Was that how Crowley had spoken to him? Was all of it just an act? It had felt so real.

‘This…place.’

The Duke is moving further into the room. Aziraphale’s heart climbs up into his throat. A few more steps and he will be discovered.

‘The way you people live. Really, it’s astounding.’

‘We do the best we can,’ says Crowley, politely sidestepping the insult, ‘In any case, you’ve clearly found at least one reason to stick around.’

Gabriel’s ludicrously shiny shoes change direction on the carpet.

‘One,’ he says, ‘And one alone.’

Aziraphale wonders if he meant to pay Crowley a compliment, from where he’s crouched it sounds more like a threat.

‘Well, Duke,’ says Crowley, ‘I’d better make sure I’m worth all this trouble.’

The Duke steps closer to Crowley.

‘Call me Gabriel.’

‘Gabriel,’ says Crowley, his voice low, softer than ever, ‘Would you like to see the view?’

‘The what?’

Aziraphale has just enough presence of mind to move when they move, scrambling to stay hidden as Crowley steers Gabriel to the furthest part of the room. He is giving Aziraphale a chance to escape and he does not intend to waste it.

‘Ah yes,’ says Gabriel, unimpressed, ‘The view.’

Aziraphale is almost at the door when he chances a look back. He does not expect Crowley to be doing the same thing. Their eyes lock across the room, Crowley’s look of pleading urgency unmistakable even at a distance. Aziraphale fumbles for the door handle even as regret bites down inside him, another second and he has slipped from the room, leaving Crowley alone with the Duke. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such an utterly self-indulgent fic (nothing wrong with that, I know), I really wasn't sure whether it would connect with anyone so thank you so very much for your kind comments. I hope you're all keeping safe and finding little ways to keep your spirits up. 
> 
> I think I've settled on a chapter count now so you can have some idea of what to expect.

Crowley rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension from his tight muscles. Gabriel left an hour ago, abiding by Beez’s contract and doing no more than inflicting some slightly severe kisses on Crowley’s mouth and neck, his hands vice like on his arms the entire time. Crowley looks down at them now, idly inspecting them for marks.

He had not been expecting Beez to include an abstinence clause, would have been handy for them to mention it. If Gabriel had not pulled back, growling his irritation at having to wait, Crowley would never have known. So, it seems they won’t be sleeping together until opening night. An unexpected reprieve. Until then it’ll be rehearsals and dinners and drinks in the Tower.

‘We could change it,’ Gabriel had murmured in Crowley’s ear, ‘Contracts can always be changed.’

Evidently Beez had thought it important to give them all some measure of security and they were not likely to be easily persuaded into changing their mind, but it was not Beez Crowley had thought of in that moment. Echoes of gentle words seemed to flow through his mind, carried on the breeze.

‘Perhaps, but imagine what I’ll do to make it worth the wait.’

Gabriel had hardly looked pleased with this response but after a moment he had let Crowley go.

‘You’ll do whatever I want,’ he had said, straightening his suit jacket, ‘That’s the whole point.’

Yes, Crowley thinks, the whole damn point.

It’s not really Beez’s fault but Crowley has no one else to blame save himself, and he prefers to outsource that kind of thing wherever possible. The stark truth of the matter is that Beez took on a failing enterprise when they became the owner of the Moulin Rouge. They have been trying to secure investors for years, their increasingly desperate attempts to secure patronage drawing nothing but derision until Gabriel came along, took one look at Crowley and wanted him all for himself.

Beez, though they would never show it to Gabriel himself, has been acting like they’ve been blessed by God Herself. Crowley, however, is fairly certain that God doesn’t make deals like this. The Devil sure does though. It’s a simple enough equation. The survival of everything and everyone connected to the Moulin Rouge in exchange for his body and soul. 

‘What’s the difference?’ Beez had snapped when they had first told Crowley their plan and Crowley had unwisely tried to find a way out of it, ‘You’ve been selling yourself since you were twelve years old. At least this way you get something more than survival out of it.’

Considerably more it turns out. Beez’s terms are quite specific. The Moulin Rouge will be transformed into a real theatre, worthy of the kind of audience who don’t expect to sleep with the cast when the curtain falls. Crowley will get the lead role in their first play alongside a lifetime of servitude to the man who is making it all possible. Quite the happy ending.

Having satisfied himself that there are no bruises, Crowley rolls down the sleeves of his black shirt. He’s out of the corset now, it’s not like he wears them for fun, and the cotton is cool against his skin. He looks down at himself. Loose shirt, tight trousers, boots with laces trailing. Gabriel wouldn’t recognise him. Relishing this thought slightly, Crowley reaches up and scoops his hair into a messy bun that he very much doubts would pass muster with the Duke. These small acts of rebellion, pointless though they may seem, are the closest he gets to freedom and Crowley is very aware that he may only be weeks away from losing them entirely.

Climbing the stairs to the roof leaves him breathless and a little dizzy. Sitting down on the low wall that marks the boundary of the elephant’s small rooftop platform, Crowley waits for his head to stop spinning. The air is cool, too cold for him to be sitting exposed for long, but Crowley needs the air, takes breath after deep breath of it, willing his chest to stop burning. A whole swathe of the fallen have gone down with flu in the last fortnight. Last bloody thing he needs. Crowley lifts his heavy head, looks up at the dark sky. There are only a few clear patches through the clouds but the stars are there, shining down on him. Worth being up here, getting cold, for a glimpse of them.

‘One day,’ he says, to them, to himself, making the same empty promise he makes every time, ‘One day I’ll fly away.’

‘Where would you go?’

The voice startles him so badly that Crowley almost pitches right off the elephant’s back. A shadow detaches itself from the background gloom as a man lunges for him, grabbing his arm. Crowley snatches it back as he recognises the damn poet. Not content with tricking him earlier, apparently the man has returned to kill him.

‘Jesus, fuck! What the hell are you doing?’ 

‘I didn’t mean... Are you alright? I…I couldn’t sleep…felt so awful about…’

Crowley glares at him. Even in the weak moonlight, the poet’s white blonde curls seem to shine. Angel indeed. Angel of fucking Death.

Under Crowley’s merciless stare, the poet’s shoulders slump.

‘I’m sorry. I saw you come up here. I thought…I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean to make you believe that I was the Duke.’

Crowley folds his arms, narrows his eyes.

‘You were watching me?’

The poet flinches then shrinks further into himself.

‘I…well, yes. I wanted to speak to you.’

Crowley does not wish to be spoken to, he very much wants to be left alone and then, after an appropriate amount of being alone, he wants to track down Anathema and burn her bohemian rat hole to the ground. None of them had any right to put him at risk like this.

‘Do you have any idea what would have happened if you were found?’

The poet shifts nervously from foot to foot.

‘I wouldn’t have let him hurt you.’

Crowley blinks. Now that he was not expecting. Not that he’s been able to get a read on this strange individual.

‘What chivalry.’ Crowley is determined to put an end to this madness. ‘I wouldn’t have done a damn thing to protect you.’

‘Of course not,’ the poet says, immediately, ‘It was my mistake. And I am really, truly sorry. I would never have tried to get close to you under such false pretences.’

‘Got no problem with spying, violating my privacy and scaring me half to death though.’

‘I…’

The poet flounders and then falls silent. He hardly seems the same person who had gifted his words to Crowley in the loveliest voice he had ever heard. Shame, Crowley thinks, but it’s also a relief. Angelic wordsmiths have no place anywhere near him.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘Can’t stay up here all night. First rehearsal tomorrow.’

‘Right, yes, of course,’ says the poet, sounding so miserable that Crowley, despite himself, begins to feel a prickle of pity for him. The guy’s probably penniless, one missed opportunity away from destitute. Crowley knows how that feels.

‘I suppose I should know your name,’ Crowley says, ‘If we’re going to be working together.’

‘My…? What?’

His bewilderment is…well, Crowley has to admit it’s the tiniest bit charming. Of course, the guy’s a writer, probably an actor too. Perhaps that’s the connection Crowley feels, a consummate liar meeting a fellow professional.

‘Your play,’ Crowley says, ‘I persuaded Gabriel to take a chance on it. Told him I knew the author. I’m surprised Anathema hasn’t told you, can’t keep anything secret from her.’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ says the poet, weakly, ‘Did you…did you really do that for me?’

‘For you? No. I did it because Gabriel wants a play, the Moulin Rouge needs one and you’ve written one. A good one, if your poetry is anything to go by. You have written it, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I…most of it.’

‘Terrific,’ says Crowley, getting to his feet, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

He moves past the poet, uncomfortably aware that the ground appears to be tilting beneath him. That’s new. He’s almost reached the stairs when the poet blurts out, ‘Aziraphale. My name. It’s Aziraphale.’ 

Crowley’s attention is unwittingly caught by this. Aziraphale. He wants to roll the name around his mouth, press his tongue to the edges of it, hear it spoken aloud in his own voice. Before he is tempted to give in to any of these stupid impulses, Aziraphale speaks again.

‘Did you mean it?’ 

‘Mean what?’

The clouds have shifted and there is a little more moonlight hitting Aziraphale’s face now. His curls are a little wilder than Crowley remembers as if he has been running his hands through them repeatedly. It gives him the look of a man desperately trying not to hope for something. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar expression though most people of Crowley’s acquaintance stopped hoping for anything beyond a full belly and a few hours peace a long time ago.

Aziraphale has begun to twist his ring around his pinkie finger. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s nervous about it.

‘You said you were falling in love with me.’

Oh. Fuck. The man’s an idiot. Crowley suddenly wishes he had kept walking. He’d be halfway to his bed by now.

‘I’m a courtesan, Aziraphale. I’m paid to make people believe I’m in love them.’

Aziraphale nods quickly, fiddles with a button on his coat, doesn’t meet Crowley’s eyes.

‘Yes. Right. Silly me. Just had to check. Foolish of me to believe you could…that you would ever…with someone like me.’

He gestures at himself hopelessly, tries to put a brave face over his disappointment and does a piss poor job of it. It should be pathetic. Such a performance over something so stupid but there’s something so genuine about him. Something innocent. Crowley’s chest is hurting again but he’s not sure it’s for the same reason as before.

‘I can’t fall in love with anyone,’ he says bluntly.

It’s meant to be a kind of reassurance. It’s not personal, it’s simply the way things are, the way he is, but Aziraphale’s look of utter horror tells Crowley that this is not the end of the conversation.

‘Can’t fall in love? But, my dear, that’s terrible!’

Crowley rolls his eyes. How could he ever have believed this man was anything but a bohemian?

‘Starving to death is terrible.’

But Aziraphale is already shaking his head as only someone who has never faced this possibility could.

‘Love is…’ Aziraphale casts around for inspiration. ‘All you need is love.’

Crowley laughs, low and bitter.

‘Maybe for angels, things work very differently for the rest of us.’

‘I really don’t think…’ Aziraphale begins but Crowley cuts across him.

‘If you want to experiment with living off love alone then be my guest but me? I’m tired and I’m cold and if Beez catches me out here talking to you my life won’t be worth living so goodnight, Aziraphale. I’ll see you in the morning.’

It would have been the perfect way to end the interaction, would have been if Crowley had not felt an immediate slicing pain through his chest the instant he turns away. He tries to ignore it but his body won’t respond the way he needs it to. He reaches out but his fingers slip from the stair rail the moment they touch it and all the time the pain in his chest grows and grows and grows.

Crowley’s knees have already hit the unforgiving roof top when Aziraphale reaches him, throwing strong arms around him to prevent him from collapsing completely. Even through the confusion and pain, Crowley can hear Aziraphale saying his name over and over again, like a plea, like a prayer. And then he is floating, flying.

‘Don’t worry,’ says the angel, lifting him like it’s something he does every day, ‘Everything’s going to be alright.’

Aziraphale’s coat is soft and warm. Crowley lays his head against it, can’t help it, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he is in his own bed and Aziraphale is tucking the covers around him.

‘I’m fine,’ Crowley says the instant their eyes meet because that’s what he always says when he’s not sure what he is or what has happened. He’ll keep pretending until it’s true, it’s always true in the end.

Aziraphale looks deeply worried and more than a bit frightened.

‘Should I call for a doctor?’

‘No!’ Crowley tries to sit up but barely manages to move his arms. ‘If anyone finds you here…’

‘I’ll go,’ says Aziraphale, ‘I’ll…’

He hovers beside the bed, his hands smoothing the covers, his eyes darting over the bed, over Crowley lying in it.

‘I’ll go then,’ Aziraphale says without making any movement to leave. Then abruptly he leans in, plants a gentle kiss on Crowley’s forehead.

‘Get some rest,’ he whispers.

He leaves but it’s a long time before Crowley’s mind stills enough for him to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale barely sleeps that night. He can’t afford to, not when the first read through of his play is in a matter of hours and half of it remains unwritten. Sleep feels like it would be a waste anyway, he doesn’t want to close his eyes and forget, not for a moment. Inspiration is no longer an issue. The poetry flows through him in a river as red as the fire-shine of sunset hair, the words blessed as the memory of lips pressing against his.

Oh, he knows it’s a fantasy, knows he won’t ever see Crowley looking at him like that again, like he’s a holy treasure. What an actor he must be.

Aziraphale tries to capture all he is feeling in the words and actions of his characters. And while he writes, he worries. Should he have called for a doctor despite Crowley’s protests? Should he have stayed?

‘I’m fine,’ Crowley had said.

He had not looked fine. Aziraphale rips another piece of paper from his typewriter, scans the words written there with a critical eye. His brief might be to create a script good enough for a Duke but Aziraphale’s words are not for him. They never will be.

It’s just gone ten in the morning and the Moulin Rouge’s stage is strewn with props, rubbish and a fair amount of clothing discarded from the night before. Aziraphale avoids looking too closely at any of it. He is trying to see what the space could be, what it will become with a bit of investment, a lot of hard work and the relentless optimism of the bohemian spirit.

‘She’s got beautiful bones,’ says Anathema, coming to stand beside him. She is the only one of the bohemians who looks halfway presentable. Aziraphale is not sure whether the others are hungover, still drunk or whether their slumped apathy is how they normally appear when they are not trying to impress anyone. He avoids looking too closely at them too.

The clomping of heavy boots across the bare boards heralds Beez’s arrival. They stalk across the stage like an angry wasp, kicking things aside and scowling. In their wake, a dishevelled and frankly mutinous looking group of the fallen trail. Most of them look as if they have not been to bed. Aziraphale’s doubts, already gnawing a hole in his stomach, grow exponentially at the sight of them. He’s only got a few weeks to turn this group of mismatched, underfed, unpredictable performers into something worthy of Parisian society.

‘Clean this place up,’ Beez shrieks at no one in particular. The fallen and half the bohemians set to immediately and suddenly the place is a hive of activity. Perhaps this is why Aziraphale does not notice Crowley’s arrival. One moment he is absent and the next he is standing right in the centre of the stage wearing the same tight trousers as the night before but a white shirt this time beneath a black corset. His hair is tightly plaited, the end hanging over one shoulder. Even in the less than ideal light, he looks utterly bewitching. And well, as far as Aziraphale can tell. The tension Aziraphale did not know he had been carrying leaves him in a rush, leaving him feeling curiously boneless.

Beez approaches Crowley, appraises him. Whether they find him satisfactory or not is impossible to say, Beez does not seem the sort to change expression to make things easier for anyone. To Aziraphale’s surprise Beez then points him out and Crowley's eyes find his.

‘Go on then,’ Beez snaps, loud enough to carry and Crowley, unperturbed by their tone, descends from the stage and wanders slowly towards where Aziraphale stands, rooted to the spot.

‘Hello Aziraphale,’ says Crowley, extending his hand, ‘Pleasure to see you again.’ 

Aziraphale can feel numerous pairs of eyes on them, Beez’s among them, as he takes Crowley’s hand and presses a light kiss to the back of it.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he returns, glad that this is not the first time they are meeting. The fluttering of his heart is no surprise. 

‘Do you need to be introduced to anyone else?’ Crowley asks with a teasing smirk, ‘Or would you rather keep holding my hand?’

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale releases Crowley at once. ‘You're the most important to me. I mean, you’re the lead, after all. This whole play was written for you.’

‘I should hope so!’

Aziraphale jumps at this booming interruption. The Duke has arrived and is looking around like someone who is mildly regretting every decision they made to get them to this point.

‘Gabriel,’ says Crowley, taking a step away from Aziraphale, ‘Glad you could join us.’

‘Yes, well,’ says Gabriel, ‘I’m always very hands-on with my investments.’

He too looks Crowley up and down and his verdict is much easier to read than Beez’s had been. His lip curls at the sight of Crowley’s trousers.

‘You won’t wear those again.’

None of them have time to react to this pronouncement before Gabriel is snapping his fingers and a suited man appears at his side, gold teeth glinting inside a shark’s mouth. Gabriel leans over to him and whispers something in the man’s ear. The man listens, nods once and never takes his eyes off Crowley’s face.

‘Right,’ says Gabriel, ‘That will be all, Sandalphon. Crowley, you’re with me. And you, what’s your name?’

‘Aziraphale.’

Gabriel wrinkles his nose like the name has offended him.

‘Aziraphale,’ he says, making a meal of the pronunciation, ‘Tell me, what’s the story?’

Feeling considerably less confident with every moment that passes, Aziraphale clears his throat.

‘The story?’

‘The story, the plot.’ Gabriel waves his hand impatiently. ‘What is my play about?’

Gabriel’s ownership of the work throws him, and Aziraphale finds himself stammering.

‘It’s…it’s about…’ 

He sounds like a complete fool, a writer who can’t find the right words is no writer at all. In desperation, Aziraphale glances at Crowley who looks serenely back at him. And smiles. Warmth blooms in Aziraphale’s chest.

‘It’s about love, love overcoming all obstacles.’

The bohemians give a muted cheer, some of the fallen scoff and Gabriel looks decidedly unimpressed but Crowley is still smiling and Aziraphale finds it easier to keep going.

‘Our setting is India where the most beautiful courtesan in all the world has been pledged in marriage to an evil Baron. During their engagement celebrations the courtesan meets a sitar player and the sitar player falls madly in love. The courtesan does not believe in love but the sitar player makes it her mission to show him all that love can be and they begin an affair right under the Baron’s nose. As the wedding draws nearer, the Baron discovers the lovers and threatens to kill the sitar player. She manages to escape and it seems that the courtesan will be forced into a life of misery but on the day of the wedding itself, the sitar player returns. And well, I haven’t quite sorted the details fully but I certainly intend for love to emerge triumphant.’

The bohemians break into applause at this, Anathema whistles. The fallen seem amused if anything. Gabriel’s expression remains unchanged.

‘And this is what people want to see, is it?’ he asks.

‘Love sells,’ says Crowley, coming to Aziraphale's aid, ‘Well, sex sells and I am assuming it’ll be heavily implied.’

Crowley’s wink makes Aziraphale blush and look away. Gabriel, however, seems like he’s started to be won round.

‘Let’s get going then, shall we?’ says Anathema from the stage, ‘Aziraphale, have you allocated parts?’

Gabriel is present for the entirety of the first run through which is, to put it mildly, an unqualified disaster. Aziraphale has placed Raven in the role of the Baron, Anathema as the sitar player and Crowley will of course play the courtesan but there is a great deal of squabbling over the remaining speaking roles. There aren’t nearly enough scripts to go around, though why this should matter when the majority of the cast can’t read Aziraphale will never know. Most of the fallen seem more interested in stealing each other’s lines than committing any effort to learning their own. Crowley is the only reliable one amongst them but reads his part from his seat beside Gabriel in such a bored monotone that it leaves Aziraphale feeling bruised all over. Crowley’s reaction to his poetry the evening before had been so positive, Aziraphale had hoped that part at least had not been an act.

Gabriel keeps a proprietary hand on Crowley’s knee the entire time, a scowl on his face showing all too clearly what he thinks of the chaos before him. Aziraphale is standing close to them when Tracy, who cannot stop muddling her lines, is abruptly out-shouted by Shadwell who mistimes his own spectacularly and thunders out the words, ‘Love is the greatest thing you’ll ever learn!’ with such gusto that several of the cast scream in alarm.

‘Jesus Christ,’ mutters Gabriel, ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Oh, it’s usually much worse,’ says Crowley, with a nonchalant shrug, ‘Give it a week or two and things will all be straightened out, trust me.’

Apparently Gabriel does, trust Crowley that is, for he only stays ten more minutes before announcing that he has business elsewhere. The door has barely had time to close behind him when Crowley is up on stage. Within moments he has taken charge and is delivering his lines like they were written by Shakespeare himself. Aziraphale is not the only one left spellbound by the transformation and soon the entire cast are scrambling to match their lead.

On and on they go, way past the point Aziraphale had thought they would all stop for the day. Food appears. It’s simple but no one complains. Anathema begins to discuss costumes with each performer, taking measurements and delivering her lines at the same time. Shadwell is investigating the current lighting situation so that every now and then the limelight picks someone out and holds them captive.

A rat ambles straight across the stage at one point, running right across Crowley’s boot. He breaks character with a bright laugh that makes Aziraphale want to do whatever it takes to hear it again. Anathema grins over at him and Aziraphale, giddy with relief and exhaustion and happiness, grins back. It is as if there is nowhere else for any of them to be but here on this shabby stage, helping to bring a little light to the darkness.

It ends, of course. It has to. The fallen are chased off by Beez to earn their keep, all but Crowley who has a tape measure around his waist. Anathema has left him until last.

‘Dagon and I have got such plans for you,’ Aziraphale hears her say, ‘Gabriel’s going to lose his mind.’

Crowley makes a non-committal sound which Aziraphale chooses to interpret as him not caring much for Gabriel’s opinion. Wishful thinking, he knows. Everything they are doing must please Gabriel. It’s really the only requirement.

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale’s approach. He looks tired which is more than understandable. He’s pale but perhaps he always is.

‘Come to tell me everything I did wrong?’ Crowley asks, as Anathema drops down to measure his in seam.

‘Wow,’ she says, ‘How do you even get into these?’

‘Sheer willpower,’ says Crowley, flashing her a smile, ‘Seriously, Mr Writer. What notes do you have for me? I promise I shall take any and all criticism with supreme amounts of humility and grace.’

Anathema snorts and Crowley nudges her gently with his knee.

‘Actually,’ says Aziraphale, keeping a tight hold of the sheaf of papers that constitute the one and only complete script, ‘You were wonderful.’

‘It’s true,’ says Anathema getting to her feet and impulsively kissing Crowley on the cheek, ‘Wonderful.’

She rushes off, clutching a notebook of measurements to her chest. It’s not true to say that she leaves Aziraphale and Crowley alone, there are still people milling about the stage, collecting up possessions and finishing the food, but it is as alone as they have been all day.

‘How are you feeling?’ Aziraphale asks.

‘Fine,’ says Crowley, airily, ‘No need to worry. I don’t make a habit of fainting on stage.’

'Or off it, I hope.' 

‘Only when there’s an angel to catch me.’

It’s just a line but Aziraphale’s breath catches a little all the same.

‘I’m just glad you’re alright,’ he says because he is and because saying ‘I wish you would kiss me again' is impossible. Anathema will get to kiss him, right here on the stage, over and over again in rehearsals and then with a whole audience watching. Gabriel will get to kiss him. Gabriel will get to do whatever he likes whenever he wants to. This thought makes Aziraphale feel brittle all the way through to his bones.

‘Looking a little peaky yourself,’ says Crowley, eyes narrowing.

‘I’m just…it’s been a long day.’

‘Yeah,’ says Crowley, raising a hand to rub his neck. Aziraphale sees the tension in him then, gets the merest hint of how much it has cost Crowley to hold it together and pull everyone along with him.

‘I should…’ Aziraphale begins, meaning to take his leave.

‘Walk me back?’

Crowley’s question cuts across him. Refusing is unthinkable.

The moment they leave the stage Crowley slips his arm through Aziraphale’s, leans on him slightly. A spike of worry makes Aziraphale hold on tight but Crowley does not stop or even slow down, it seems he simply wants the contact. He’s not to know that Aziraphale has touched precious few people in his life. His parents did not hug or kiss, his boyhood friends would only touch if it was to strike or kick in those vicious games that Aziraphale never understood. If he’d had siblings, he imagines their relationship would have been just as strained and distant as the ones he dutifully maintains with his cousins.

When it comes to romance, Aziraphale has kissed precisely one other person besides Crowley and the circumstances were so antiseptic and artificial they had both turned away afterwards, ashamed of themselves. She had been engaged to someone else a month later and Aziraphale had been nothing but relieved.

They have almost reached their destination. The fact that the sight of the giant elephant is already beginning to seem less ludicrous suggests the Moulin Rouge is getting under Aziraphale’s skin. He is wondering what it means to have adjusted to this new life so quickly when Crowley speaks.

‘I really should thank you. For last night, for…helping.’

‘It was nothing.’ 

‘It wasn’t,’ says Crowley, very quietly, ‘Don’t know many people who would have done that without expecting something in return.’

‘I don’t!’ Aziraphale blurts out, ‘Expect anything, I mean. I just wanted to help.’

‘I know.’

Crowley is still holding onto him and their proximity is starting to feel dizzying. It’s going to come across as insulting if Aziraphale unlinks their arms now and yet it would help him to compose his thoughts if there was a clear space between them.

Crowley it seems has more to say.

‘I should thank you for the play too. I will try to do it justice.’

‘You will,’ says Aziraphale, ‘You already are.’

Crowley lets his breath go in a loud sigh and for a wild moment Aziraphale thinks he is going to rest his head on his shoulder. There’s a long pause before Crowley asks, ‘Are you always so kind?’

‘I try.’

He should say goodnight, leave now, try to forget the way the very air is charged with possibility, with potential. They stand arm in arm for a more few seconds before Crowley turns to face him. Aziraphale does not move, barely dares to breathe, as Crowley searches his face for something.

‘Angel…’

It only takes this one word for Aziraphale to lose his ability to restrain himself. He is reaching forwards, not quite touching but wanting to, needing to. He has to say it, the thing that has been burning a hole inside him all day.

‘Gabriel doesn’t love you.’

It’s a stupidly obvious thing to say out loud but the truth of it stings all the same. Crowley looks at Aziraphale with a strangely veiled expression. Slowly his hands rise until they are both flat on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale waits to be pushed away but Crowley simply smooths his palms over the worn material of his coat.

‘Of course he doesn’t.’ Crowley’s fingers trace the buttons Aziraphale has sewn back on more times than he can count. ‘Creatures like me aren’t meant to be loved.’

‘No one should live without love,’ Aziraphale says, barely a whisper.

‘Don’t,’ says Crowley and though he might have meant it to be firm, there’s no weight to the words at all, ‘We can’t.’

‘We could,’ says Aziraphale, recklessly, hopelessly, ‘If you wanted to.’

Crowley is staring very intently at Aziraphale’s lips and Aziraphale is lost, lost to the bliss of closing the tiny gap between them, to the sweet warmth of Crowley’s mouth, to the way Crowley's tongue slides against his, all resistance forgotten. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤

Crowley is not sure how much time passes - a minute, an hour? - before he is forced to pull back and catch his breath. Aziraphale continues to press hot kisses down his neck, his fluttering hands seeking permission to land. Crowley breathes as deep as he can, taking in the cold air, before he remembers that they are still outside. Anyone could see them. If he’s going to take such a ridiculous risk, he’s at least got to make sure he’s not a complete fucking idiot about it.

‘Come with me,’ he says, taking Aziraphale’s hand and leading him into the elephant, to a room that has seen all there is to see of Crowley’s body but precious little of his mind.

‘Crowley…’

They are halfway to the bed when Aziraphale’s fingers lace their way through his and Crowley finds himself drawn back into an embrace.

‘It doesn’t have to be anything more than this,’ he says, kissing Crowley once more, gently, so fucking sweetly that Crowley wants to bite Aziraphale’s lip just to remind them both of who and what he is. 'I've wanted to touch you all day. You're so lovely, my dear.' 

There have been sweet words before, men and a few women who called him their one and only, promised him the world, and Crowley has done the same back, all in the knowledge that this is part of the act, the show. Love for a night. Payment up front. He knows better than to believe this is any different. No money’s been exchanged but it’s make believe all the same, another part to play.

So why is Crowley not saying anything back? Why is he waiting to hear what this angel will say next?

‘That can’t be comfortable,’ Aziraphale says, stroking the tight lace of Crowley’s corset, ‘May I?’

Crowley nods yes, god yes, take it off, burn the fucking thing. Aziraphale unties it clumsily, tosses it aside and Crowley lets his lungs fill at last.

‘Crowley?’

His silence is unnerving Aziraphale who no doubt expected a little more direction at this point. Crowley makes a supreme effort to come back to himself. He’s never had a problem manipulating other people’s desire. What he struggles with are the rare occasions when he has to manage his own. He is, however, a professional and professionals do not fall apart even when someone beautiful and gentle and good happens to be looking at them with the kind of concerned adoration Crowley most definitely does not deserve.

‘Sorry, angel,’ he says, stepping forwards so that Aziraphale is all but forced to place his hands on his hips, ‘Just…feels good.’

This kind of misdirection usually works. Even the best have the occasional lapse in concentration and putting it down to being lost in the bliss of it all is almost guaranteed to put any doubts to rest. That it happens to be true in this case is neither here nor there.

‘What do you like?’ Aziraphale asks, ‘I’ll do it again, I’ll do it all night.’

Crowley barely manages to suppress a groan. It has nothing to do with the kisses Aziraphale is distracting him with, lovely as they are. Aziraphale is so eager to please and Crowley wants all of it but he’s tired, he’s so damn tired that the idea of all night makes him want to throw himself to the ground and wail. Once more his silence betrays him.

‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ says Aziraphale, ‘Please.’

Crowley closes his eyes shutting out the blue-blue-blue of Aziraphale’s, a blue Crowley could drown in.

‘I’m so tired.’

He shouldn’t have said it but it’s too late to bite back the words. Crowley bites his tongue instead, needing the shock of pain.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Aziraphale asks, managing to sound neither hurt nor offended. Maybe he’s both but Crowley cannot bear to open his eyes and check. 

‘No.’

He doesn’t want Aziraphale to go, doesn’t even want him to step away. Crowley remembers how he’d felt in his arms the night before, even in pain, even fighting unconsciousness. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt so safe in someone else’s company.

‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ Crowley says because people don’t come to the elephant to sleep, ‘And then, would you stay?’

‘If you want me here, I’ll stay.’ One of Aziraphale’s hands moves to cradle Crowley’s face. ‘If you’ll let me hold you, if you’ll let me share your bed, that’s already more than I dared to hope for.’

Crowley doesn’t believe him, knows that the undressing will start things up again but Aziraphale has said the word bed so at least they’re heading in the right direction. He reaches out, intending to divest Aziraphale of his many layers but Aziraphale covers his hands with his own.

‘I’ll do this, my dear,’ he says, ‘You just get yourself ready, don’t worry about anything else.’

Minutes later and Crowley is lying on his side in bed, sleep already pulling him under. He tries to fight against it as Aziraphale slips beneath the sheets, wraps his arm around him and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. Neither one of them is naked. Crowley is struck by the absurdity of this but coherent thoughts are becoming harder to hold onto. It’s warm in Aziraphale’s arms, his soft belly pressed up against Crowley’s bony spine. It’s warm, he’s safe, and within minutes Crowley is asleep.

He wakes to a monochrome world, night’s last stand. There is no moment of startled awareness, no shock or regret, Crowley simply wakes to the reality of Aziraphale fast asleep and snoring softly in bed beside him. They’ve shifted position, Aziraphale on his back, Crowley facing him and oh fuck, he’s beautiful. Too beautiful for Crowley to keep his hands to himself.

Aziraphale is wearing a vest that’s seen better days. Crowley traces the holes with his fingertip, brushes over the silvery chest hair that makes a teasing appearance. Aziraphale’s eyelids flicker and he hums sleepily. The sound sends a shiver through Crowley’s whole body. 

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale resists waking for a few moments. Crowley rests his hand on his chest, right over his heart, watching as his eyes open.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale’s confused expression blooms into something wonderful before clouding over once more. ‘What is it? Do I need to go?’

He will. Soon. Before anyone else is awake.

‘Not yet,’ says Crowley, his hand travelling lower, ‘Feel I should make up for any disappointment.’

Aziraphale is half hard already. He gasps at Crowley’s touch, hips canting a little.

‘Dreaming of me?’ Crowley asks, ‘Or someone else?’

‘You,’ says Aziraphale, all wide-eyed and earnest, ‘Only you.’

Crowley considers his options. What would the angel like best? Before he can act on his suspicions, Aziraphale reaches for him, pulling him down into an urgent kiss.

‘I love you.’

The words are pressed into Crowley’s mouth. They are light, they are air, they are breath itself. They are too fucking much and Crowley acts quickly, Aziraphale’s back arching the moment Crowley takes him in hand.

‘Oh, darling, I…’

But Crowley’s mission now is to drive all words from him. He wants to preserve the ones he’s already heard, trap them in glass, hoard them greedily like they are the only precious thing he owns. Aziraphale moans, tries to master himself and fails. Crowley kisses him and Aziraphale’s eyes open to plead with him. In the barely there morning light they are the colour of a storm at sea.

‘Relax,’ Crowley says, ‘I’ll take care of you.’

Aziraphale screws his eyes shut, his expression almost pained. He’s panting, one hand gripping the sheets, the other holding Crowley close to him. It won’t take long.

‘Crowley…’

‘Angel.’

‘I…please, I…’

Crowley is enjoying the incoherence when Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. He tries to sit up, groans, reaches down to still Crowley’s busy hand.

‘Stop, please! I’m going to…your bed…’

He’s serious. Aziraphale is in a whore’s bed and he’s worried about making a mess. Crowley starts to laugh, he can’t help it, the sound startling in the hushed quiet. Aziraphale tenses, tips his head back, lets out a strangled cry, and Crowley’s work is done.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ Aziraphale whispers, the moment he can, ‘I didn’t…’

‘Ssh, enjoy the moment.' 

When Crowley has finished cleaning them both, he leans over Aziraphale, presses two fingers to his lips the way he did when he had mistaken him for the Duke. Aziraphale is still trembling slightly. When he kisses Crowley’s fingertips, Crowley leans into the unfamiliar tenderness of it.

‘Tell me how the story ends, angel.’

Aziraphale smiles up at him and a pain flares through Crowley’s heart, hot as flame. It’s not real, none of this is real, but it’s such a beautiful illusion.

‘It ends as it begins,’ Aziraphale says simply, ‘With love.’ 

‘So the courtesan and the sitar player run away together, both penniless,’ says Crowley, ‘What then? Will their love feed them, keep them safe, keep them warm?’

‘Yes!’ says Aziraphale, raising himself up on his elbows, ‘Yes, my dear. It will.’

‘Right,’ says Crowley, ‘Love must be something special if it can do all that.’

‘It is,’ Aziraphale says, with the eagerness of one who wants something to be true but lacks the experience to know it, ‘Oh, it is, and I’m going to show you, I promise.’

Crowley does not want promises. He does not want to think of the ones he has made, the one he is breaking. Aziraphale must know as well as he does that they are pretending. It’s a distraction, a dangerous one, but Crowley knows their bodies are just doing what bodies do, hearts and minds have no business getting involved.

‘You should go,’ he says. 

Aziraphale’s blissful expression crumples and then his eyes fill with cautious hope. 

‘Tonight?’ he asks, ‘Can I see you again tonight?’

Crowley should say no, the word is on his tongue ready to fall, but Aziraphale is looking at him like he has the power to crush the hope right out of him. It's different from the limited power Crowley is usually permitted to wield. He's not used to having a choice. 

‘Please,’ Aziraphale says, ‘Crowley, I…’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘After rehearsals, yes.’

Aziraphale’s delight is a rainbow. He kisses Crowley’s face over and over again. Even while he is getting dressed, he keeps pausing to take Crowley’s hand, press another kiss to his palm, his wrist.

‘My darling,’ he says, ‘Tonight will be all about you.’

Rehearsals are in full swing once more. It’s an intense scene but even so, Anathema is surprised by the force of her emotions, manipulated as they are by Aziraphale’s script before being amplified by her own imagination. She is standing very close to Crowley, her whole frame rigid with the anger that comes with betrayal.

‘Take it!’ she commands, ‘It’s yours.’

Crowley looks from the bundle of paper in her hand back up to her face. It hurts to hold his eyes. Damn, he’s good.

‘I don’t want your money.’

His voice is too quiet. They’ll never hear it at the back of the stage but no one steps in to tell him to raise it. Anathema can see Aziraphale out of the corner of her eye, watching them with avid attention. Or is he? He’s certainly watching someone incredibly closely. Anathema takes the opportunity to move away from Crowley, conduct a little experiment of her own. They’ve been told to use the whole stage, to get a feel for the space, and as she does so Aziraphale’s eyes do not follow her. 

‘Take it,’ she says again, throwing the paper they’re using to represent money at Crowley’s feet, ‘I’ve paid my whore.’

The line has barely had time to hit home before someone yells, ‘Look out!’

Both Anathema and Crowley glance up to see part of the set falling towards them. Anathema is quickest to react, grabbing Crowley by the wrist and yanking him out of the way so forcefully that they both topple over. Dust rises up in a choking cloud and for the next few moments no one in the vicinity can speak for coughing.

‘You okay?’ Anathema finally manages to choke out.

Her co-star is not able to reply but he nods.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale appears, looking frantic, ‘Crowley? Oh thank God!’

He reaches down and pulls Crowley to his feet. It almost looks as if Aziraphale intends to pull him into a hug but when he sees Anathema watching, he steps abruptly away.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she grumbles, ‘Not as if I saved the day or anything.’

Crowley holds out a hand to her. He is still wheezing but he has breath enough to say, ‘My hero.’

Anathema rolls her eyes, squirming in his grasp as he snakes an arm around her waist.

‘Get off me, serpent,’ she says even as she leans into him, giving him her trademark look, the one filled with black magic, charm and utter exasperation. 

Aziraphale clears his throat pointedly. His mouth is a downturned bow, a miserable crease lining his forehead.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Anathema says, ‘Your lead is fine. Not sure about the stage though.’

They all survey the damage. The falling piece of set has broken through some of the boards, exposing the black chasm beneath. It is not a pretty sight.

‘Break time?’ Crowley suggests innocently just as Beez comes stalking into view looking ready for war. Everyone who knows what’s good for them ducks for cover.

‘You!’ Beez points at Hastur, whose only purpose so far that day has been to lurk menacingly in the wings. ‘Clean this mess up.’

They round on Anathema.

‘You, get your hands off what you can’t hope to pay for.’

A spin on their heels and it’s Aziraphale’s turn.

‘You, finish the damn play.’

Another minute swivel and Beez is narrowing their eyes at Crowley.

‘And you, take some fucking care, will you? I’ll hunt you through all the circles of hell if I have to so don’t think getting yourself killed will save you.’

They glare around at the rest of the cast, most of whom are pretending they are invisible.

‘And the rest of you, _get back to work!_ ’

They all do as they’re told as quickly as they can but Anathema does not miss the look that passes between Crowley and Aziraphale as the writer backs away. It’s a question and an answer, a silent call and response. A fleeting, barely there thing which thrums with the energy of a plucked harp string.

 _Interesting_ , Anathema thinks, tucking this knowledge away inside her multitudinous box of secrets. _Very interesting._


	8. Chapter 8

‘It’s relatively clean but it’s basic, very basic. Nothing special at all.’

Aziraphale had been elated when Crowley agreed to come back to his humble abode. So elated that he’s given no thought to the practicalities and here they are, moments away from the crumbling, damp, noisy lodging house Anathema had recommended to him based solely on its cheapness and its proximity the Moulin Rouge.

‘If there’s somewhere else you want to go, I'd be more than happy to...' 

‘Angel…’

‘I have some money.’

Crowley, whose hand had been brushing his, fingers just touching, pulls away.

‘What?’ he asks.

Aziraphale, unaware of the danger of his present course, continues blindly towards the precipice.

‘I could pay for somewhere nicer for the night. There’s only a small bed, you see, and the window doesn’t close all the way, and I don’t know how light a sleeper you are but…’

Crowley stops walking.

‘You think any of that bothers me?’

Aziraphale thinks of soft blankets, silk wraps and golden décor. Crowley deserves better than he can give him.

‘I’m happy to pay,’ he finishes, weakly.

Crowley views him darkly.

‘You want to pay me?’

‘No!’ Aziraphale flounders, doubts surfacing faster than he can process them. ‘Unless…? Is that what you…?’

Crowley’s expression becomes venomous.

‘You couldn’t afford me.’

The penny drops at last.

‘It wasn’t my intention to cause offence,’ Aziraphale says hastily.

A muscle twitches in Crowley’s jaw but he says nothing. Aziraphale twists his hands together then, realising he’s visibly fretting, he drops them again.

'In case it’s not already painfully obvious, I’ve never done this before, or anything like it. Forgive me for making mistakes, my dear. I will try to learn from them.’

The corner of Crowley’s mouth lifts, a smile fighting its way onto his face despite what Aziraphale suspects to be considerable effort to subdue it.

‘Point taken,' Crowley says, 'Now let me be clear in return. You could take me to a barn and tell me to get down on all fours in the hay and I wouldn’t say a word of complaint. I don’t mind where we go or what we do once we get there, and I have no interest at all in your money.’

Aziraphale blinks.

‘Right then,’ he says, painfully aware that his cheeks are burning, ‘It’s…it’s just up here.’

As they enter the narrow street, Crowley lets Aziraphale take his hand. They’re almost at the front door now but Aziraphale is still feeling uncomfortable with the way things have been left. 

‘May I ask if you have any preferences at all for tonight?’ he asks.

Crowley gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

‘Let’s just start with getting inside, shall we?’ 

Aziraphale has only been gone a single night but his room feels entirely unfamiliar, everything feels different with Crowley beside him. The white walls are brighter than he remembers, the dark bedspread less depressing. His desk, with its surface scratched and burned by all manner of things in all manner of ways, attracts Crowley’s attention at once. Aziraphale watches him walk over to the typewriter, can't help watching him, bewitched by the angles of his shoulders beneath his coat, the impossible red of his hair, the length of his legs encased in his preferred tight black trousers once more.

‘So this is where it all happens,’ Crowley says, drawing one finger slowly over the typewriter keys. Aziraphale can hardly breathe. He has the strangest sensation in his chest, as if Crowley’s delicate fingers are passing over his ribs rather than the stiff typewriter keys.

‘Is this where you wrote the poetry you read to me?’

Crowley has not turned to look at him, he’s still focused on the machine before him, leaving Aziraphale to wonder whether any of this would have been possible without that first misunderstanding.

‘Same typewriter, different room,’ Aziraphale says, watching Crowley press down lightly on several letters, not hard enough to mark the paper, ‘I so dearly wish I’d read you something else.’

‘Oh?’

‘Something I’d written for you.’

Crowley looks over his shoulder then.

‘Like the play?’

'I suppose so.' 

Crowley has such a huge role in the play, is so pivotal to the whole plot that it has been easy for Aziraphale to spend the entire day staring at him. How long will it take to memorise the lines of him, he wonders, how long will Crowley give him?

‘So,’ Crowley says, shedding his coat, ‘You have work to do.’

‘Later,’ says Aziraphale. He’ll never sleep again if it means he can slide his hands up underneath Crowley’s dark shirt and feel the warmth of his skin.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ says Crowley, taking the two steps required to reach the bed. He sits down, crossing his ankles. ‘You won’t even know I’m here.’

Aziraphale removes his own coat, laying it over Crowley’s.

‘I rather think you overestimate my ability to ignore you, my dear, and I do believe I promised that this evening would be all about you.’

Crowley lifts his chin, hints at a smile.

‘Isn’t everything?’

There he is, the performer, the actor, protecting himself even as he offers himself to the world.

‘No,’ says Aziraphale, softly, ‘I think perhaps not.’

He might not have been around the Moulin Rouge long but Aziraphale’s impressions are based on observation. Crowley is the centrepiece that much is true, but Aziraphale has seen no evidence that anyone ever asks what he wants, that this is or has ever been a consideration. How many people truly see him? How many notice that he’s got a heart and a soul and an emptiness that Aziraphale can sense even from a distance?

‘I’m not sure I like it when you look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

Crowley is very still. He is not blinking.

‘Like I am a character in your play.’

‘That’s not…’ Aziraphale is taken aback. ‘I don’t think of you like that at all. You’re far too lovely to be a creation of mine or anyone else’s but God’s, I suppose.’

A shadow passes across Crowley’s face.

‘I left God behind a long time ago, angel.’

The light has gone out of Crowley’s extraordinary eyes. Aziraphale has taken yet another misstep somewhere and he’s not sure how to find his way back onto the right path. There’s no denying too that his own heart feels jolted, shocked by this softest of blasphemies. Aziraphale tries to tell himself he’s being ridiculous but it is one thing to know that he is acting against the teachings of the church, the teachings of his own family, and quite another to be presented with the evidence.

Crowley glances towards the window, shivers. Aziraphale knows full well that the draft is permanent but he goes to the window anyway. Perhaps he can find a blanket to plug the gap.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t want you to get cold.’

Aziraphale fusses with the sash, the curtains. There’s mould growing up near the top of the window, too high for him to reach without standing on a chair.

‘I’ve upset you.’

‘Not at all,’ Aziraphale says, though he still avoids turning round for a moment longer. 

‘Sit with me, angel.’

Aziraphale does as he is told, the proximity reassuring. Any awkwardness begins to melt away as soon as Crowley reaches out to place a hand lightly on Aziraphale’s thigh. It’s much easier not to think about all the reasons they are courting trouble when they are alone, when they are allowed to touch.

‘You know what I am,' Crowley says. 

‘You’re delightful.’

‘Not what I...’

‘Not to mention enchanting, mysterious, beautiful.’

‘Angel…’

‘And warm and wonderful and if you don’t kiss me, I might go quite mad.’

Crowley’s full and unguarded smile is such a precious thing. Aziraphale could sit at his typewriter all day, every day and still never capture such beauty in words or find a way to describe how it feels to kiss those same lips, feel them part beneath his own. Even the greatest of prose, the most loving poetry would fall hopelessly short. 

They kiss and they kiss and then Crowley reaches for the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, fingers so deft and clever that he’s got half of them undone before Aziraphale fully realises what’s happening.

‘No,’ he says.

‘No?’

Aziraphale kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth, captures those clever hands in one of his own.

‘There’s something I’d like to do, if you would permit me.’

‘You make it sound like I’ll refuse,’ says Crowley.

‘You can always refuse, my dear.’

Crowley tilts his head which Aziraphale does not consider adequate consent.

‘You must tell me if there’s anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to pretend here, not with me.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Crowley asks, half laughing.

‘To put yourself first? Absolutely not.’

Aziraphale raises a hand, brushes Crowley’s hair back behind his ear. Inexplicably this simple gesture makes Crowley tremble.

‘Fuck,’ he breathes.

It’s not anywhere close to a command but Aziraphale slides off the bed anyway onto his knees. Crowley is wide eyed as Aziraphale pushes his legs apart, giving himself space.

There was a part of Aziraphale, a not insignificant part, that had wondered why Crowley had not sought his own pleasure the night before. He had been tired, yes, but doubt had crept in alongside reason. Aziraphale knows his shape is not typically considered attractive. His own family were always on at him to eat less, to keep his jacket on, suck in his stomach, but the way Crowley is looking at him now makes Aziraphale feel seen and wanted in his entirety.

Aziraphale has a little trouble with the next part, Crowley’s trousers really are incredibly tight, but he manages and the voice inside telling him that Crowley is not attracted to him is abruptly silenced.

‘My darling.’

What else is there to say? What else is there to do but lower his head and take Crowley into his mouth? The sound Crowley makes then is enough to make Aziraphale feel his own need magnify tenfold but it’s easy to focus solely on Crowley while he’s gasping like that, even easier when he buries his hands in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale appreciates the direction. He's fantasised about this more times than he would care to admit but it’s a far more overwhelming experience in reality. He tries to focus, wanting to get it right. He wants to hear Crowley cry out more than anything.

‘Angel…’

Aziraphale chokes a bit then, being called an angel in this context sending an illicit thrill right through him. Misinterpreting this, Crowley pulls Aziraphale off him with gentle firmness.

‘Alright,’ he says, his voice low and breathy, ‘I’m ready for you. I want you, angel. Please.’

If this is an act, Aziraphale will never again be able to separate fact from fiction. Despite the way Crowley is encouraging him to get up and join him on the bed, Aziraphale stays where he is. He wants to keep his promise. 

‘It's all about you,’ he whispers, his lips so close to Crowley’s cock that he cannot miss the way it jerks in response to his warm breath. Crowley starts to say something but Aziraphale decides it’s the perfect time to try something experimental with his tongue and Crowley’s words become an inarticulate sound of protest.

‘May I?’ Aziraphale asks once he's done. 

Crowley appears to be trying and failing to take deep breaths.

‘Yes, anything. Anything, angel.’ 

When Aziraphale takes him in his mouth once more, Crowley lets out a sound that is disturbingly close to a sob but his hands slide back into Aziraphale’s hair and he does not try to stop him again.

It takes far longer to satisfy Crowley than Aziraphale had anticipated. Discomfort builds, tips over into something else and Aziraphale longs to be able to tell Crowley not to hold back. His knees protest, his jaw aches, but Crowley sounds like he’s on the edge of a rapture Aziraphale never knew existed so he doesn’t stop, he can’t. He’ll do this every night for the rest of his life if he gets to be the one making Crowley fall apart, if he gets to hear his name called out, ringing with bliss.

Aziraphale remains on the floor afterwards so desperate for his own release that he barely has to touch himself before he’s coming too, face pressed into Crowley’s thigh. And oh, the joy of it! Such triumphant, transcendent joy that there is no room for anything else. 

Crowley recovers first, grabs the blanket from the bed and joins Aziraphale on the floor. He presses their foreheads together, whispers, ‘Thank you.’

There are tear tracks shining down his face. Aziraphale wipes at the wetness clumsily with his thumb. He feels bruised and half broken, full to the brim with a love so fierce that he knows he has to say it.

‘I love you.' 

Crowley does not say it back, doesn’t say anything, but he holds the blanket around Aziraphale like he can use it to bind them together forever. It’s only when Aziraphale notices Crowley shivering again that he manages to gather the strength to move.

‘Lie with me,’ he says, helping Crowley to his feet.

In bed, Crowley curls into him, burying his face in Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale holds him close, murmurs words neither of them will remember and within minutes Crowley is fast asleep.

There is writing to do, much writing, but Aziraphale cannot stop stroking Crowley’s hair, cannot bear to let him go just yet. The doubt he had experienced earlier feels far away now. If this love is a sin, Aziraphale will submit to the flame, and he’ll be smiling as he burns.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough few days. But I told myself I had to post a new chapter before the end of the weekend. It's all about the little victories at the moment. At least for me. 
> 
> Once again, Aziraphale's poetry is borrowed from the songs in Moulin Rouge. 
> 
> Hope everyone's doing ok.

Crowley wakes to the click-clack of typewriter keys. He's in the centre of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room but there's nothing to fear. The beautiful man writing his beautiful words a few feet away means Crowley can relax. 

His breath mists in the weak candlelight but the bed is warm. Crowley checks in with his body and is surprised to find that it feels as soft and pliant as his mind. It's a strange feeling, rare and wonderful. Even his chest feels clearer with no faint rattle as he breathes. He must be getting better. 

Crowley watches Aziraphale for a while, barely blinks so as not to miss any of the details. He'd thought none of this was his to keep but perhaps he can keep the memories of this time safe inside the locked box of his heart. He'll be able to take them out sometimes when he's alone and remember. Maybe they will make belonging to Gabriel a little easier because he'll know, he'll always know, that he chose to belong to someone else first. 

Aziraphale turns his head, his expression so fond and warm already that Crowley can hardly stand it when, upon realising Crowley is awake, his whole face lights up.

‘Darling,’ he says, like it’s Crowley’s name, ‘How are you feeling?’

Crowley considers for a moment and the word he chooses is, ‘Heavenly.’

Aziraphale’s expression shifts, his chin wobbling.

‘Sorry,’ says Crowley, pushing himself up, ‘Whatever I said, I’m sorry.’

Aziraphale crosses the room and comes to sit on the bed. Crowley has no desire to stay upright and it’s the work of but a moment to slide sideways, his head coming to rest in Aziraphale’s lap.

‘Didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. ‘I’m the opposite of upset. You don’t need to go, do you? I’ll walk you back, of course, whenever you’re ready.’

Crowley snuggles a little closer.

‘Not ready.’

Aziraphale wiggles beneath him, his happiness uncontainable.

‘Hungry then?’ he asks with undisguised hope. 

Crowley shakes his head. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt hungry.

‘Ah.' Aziraphale sounds uncertain now, almost ashamed. 'Would you mind if I ate in a little while? I'm not used to skipping dinner.' 

‘Why would I?’ Crowley asks, wondering what it would be like to kiss the taste of Aziraphale’s favourite foods from him. Aziraphale looks as if he’s about to say something but he changes his mind, worry lines appearing on his forehead.

‘You’ve been writing,’ Crowley says, sitting up, seeking to distract, ‘Can I see?’

Aziraphale fetches a slim sheaf of papers and hands it over. Crowley expects his own language but the words are foreign. He experiences a lurch of recognition as he identifies odd words but linking them together will mean dredging up knowledge from a life he has half forgotten.

‘I can translate for you,’ Aziraphale says gently, tucking himself back in bed beside Crowley. He's brought the candle he was working with closer, the light flickering over the words and making them dance.

‘Wait,’ Crowley says, frowning down at the words that are troubling him. He might raise ghosts doing this but somehow this is not as frightening as the thought of Aziraphale thinking him stupid. He's hardly going to impress bilingual Aziraphale with his barely remembered English but he leans stubbornly into the fear anyway, persists past the idea that he can't into _I will_.

‘His eyes...’

Crowley points at the next word unable to decipher it.

‘Upon,’ Aziraphale supplies, quietly.

‘Your face,’ Crowley continues, ‘His hand upon your hand.’

He points at the next line.

‘His lips caress your skin.’

‘It’s more than I can stand.’

Crowley chances a look up, expecting a patronising smile followed by the offer to take over but Aziraphale is gazing softly at him.

‘My words sound so much better when you’re saying them,’ he says.

‘Even in English?’ Crowley asks doubtfully.

‘Yes, my dear.’

As difficult as Crowley finds this to believe, Aziraphale seems sincere. And then the question Crowley had been hoping to avoid, ‘Where did you learn?’

There are so many answers he could give, so many ways to deflect and move on. In Crowley’s experience no one wants the truth, not really, and even if Aziraphale is the exception Crowley is certainly not about to provide it but nor does he wish to lie, not here, not now.

‘Wasn’t always like this, angel. Had a different name once, a whole different life.’

Aziraphale says nothing, waits, but this is all Crowley is going to give him. There’s a dark and scaly creature inside him curling protectively around the memories, preventing them from rising any closer to the surface. It’s not as if many of them are pleasant but they are his, something no one can take from him. His past is his own.

Once it’s clear that he is not going to be providing any answers, Crowley expects there to be a reaction. Denying people what they believe they are owed has consequences. He’s ready for it, braced. Aziraphale, however, does not press him, reaching out instead to take his hand as Crowley goes back to reading, or at least pretending to, until he remembers Aziraphale had mentioned being hungry. 

‘Should I get up?’ Crowley asks, thinking that if Aziraphale is going to be preparing something he might as well leave and get a few hours rest in his own bed.

‘Not yet,’ says Aziraphale, ‘I’ll just nip downstairs. Go back to sleep if you like, dearest. I’ll be right here when you wake.’

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale is there. He’s there when Crowley wakes and he’s there throughout rehearsals, his blue gaze holding him steady even when Crowley feels that he might just float up, up, up and never stop climbing. And when they have dinner that night, tucked away once more in Aziraphale’s little room, and Crowley can’t eat, Aziraphale does not push him to, and when Crowley starts to cough and can’t stop, he is there with water, his hand cradling the back of Crowley’s head. And afterwards, when Crowley expects to have to repay the kindness he has been shown, Aziraphale is there piling blankets around him, settling him in bed, kissing his forehead.

‘But we haven’t…’ Crowley says but Aziraphale shushes him.

‘Sleep, my dear,’ he says, ‘I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Crowley sleeps once more to the sound of the typewriter keys, and when he wakes Aziraphale is there again, asleep this time, one arm tucked around him anchoring him in place. 

‘What will they do to you?’ Aziraphale asks him the following night, tracing patterns on Crowley’s naked back. There is no context to the question but Crowley knows what he’s asking. And he knows the answer.

‘They won’t find out,’ Crowley says. And if they do, the consequences will be Crowley’s to bear. Aziraphale can flee, he'll be safe.

Even so, the danger grows with each whispered plan, each stolen kiss, each night they spend entwined with each other. Crowley needs to break it off and yet every time he comes close Aziraphale’s kiss steals the words away from him.

One more night, Crowley tells himself instead. Just one more. Until it’s been almost three weeks of rehearsals by day and Aziraphale by night, and Crowley still has not done what needs to be done.

The stage has been repaired and redecorated and the majority of the cast are now confident with their places, their cues, their lines. Crowley was the first to discard his script. He’s always had a good memory but it’s more than that this time. The play is part of him, the words written inside his blackened but apparently still functional heart.

‘A life without love? That’s terrible.’

Crowley rolls his eyes but is not entirely successful at keeping the smile from his face. He turns away from Aziraphale who catches his hand, pulls him back round. Aziraphale has taken Anathema’s part today while she is helping Dagon with the costumes for the supporting cast and he seems all too happy to overlook the fact that the whole cast is watching them. With the Duke absent and Aziraphale finding any excuse to touch him, Crowley is struggling to keep everything separate and the right way up.

‘I was made for loving you, darling. You were made for loving me.’

‘The only way of loving me is to pay a lovely fee.’

‘Darling, just one night.’

‘There’s no way if you can’t pay.’

Aziraphale pulls Crowley close to him. It’s not in the script and Crowley laughs, forgets his next line. This is a rare enough occurrence that some of the fallen begin whispering to one another. Not that Crowley notices, he only sees Aziraphale’s ears turn pink. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to be back on that rooftop the night they met. With Aziraphale’s poetry to help him, Crowley would get it right this time. He’d get everything right.

As perfect as it is, their fun can’t last. There are other scenes and other people who need Aziraphale’s attention, as Crowley is forced to remind him.

‘Could you explain it to me one more time?’ Tracy asks and Aziraphale, to his everlasting credit, manages to only look mildly exasperated. He has recently rewritten her part, divesting Shadwell of his few lines to allow him to focus on his backstage duties and giving them to Tracy instead who is not best pleased with this additional strain on her powers of memorisation.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Aziraphale says for what has to be the tenth time, ‘You see that the Baron’s manservant is about to kill the sitar player and you cry out.’

He gives an ‘over to you’ gesture. Tracy looks at him blankly.

‘Your line,’ Aziraphale prompts, ‘The same one you’ve heard Shadwell say a hundred times.’

‘Oh, oh yes. Be a love and remind me.’

To which Aziraphale and half the cast belt out, ‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!’

Aziraphale looks over to where Crowley is standing on the sidelines, catches his eye and grins. It’s like being bathed in holy light, the heat of it shockingly intense even after Aziraphale has looked away. 

‘Having fun?’

Hastur, as is his habit, has appeared like a bad smell. As a rule Crowley prefers to ignore him but Hastur moves closer, lingering. A few days ago Aziraphale, showing more gumption than Crowley would have expected, had fired Hastur from his small part in the play after he’d started a fight with some of the bohemians. Hastur has spent the subsequent rehearsals scowling at everyone but never quite taking his leave, no doubt under orders from Beez to keep a close eye on things.

‘Something I can help you with?’ Crowley asks without taking his eyes off Aziraphale who is now going through the rest of Tracy’s lines with her like he’s teaching a child to read.

‘I have eyes, you know,’ says Hastur.

Crowley makes the mistake of glancing at him. There’s a nasty smile playing on his thin lips.

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘So have I, noticed you’re spending a lot of time with the writer.’

‘Bit of an inevitability when we’re rehearsing his play.’

‘Rehearsing,’ says Hastur, slowly, drawing out every syllable for maximum effect, ‘Is that what you’ve been doing? All night. Every night.’

Dread sweeps over Crowley like mist. Hastur is so close to him now that he has to concentrate very hard on staying still, on staring straight ahead. Show no weakness. Show no fear.

‘I know what you’ve been doing. Can’t help it, can you? Nothing but a whore.’

It shouldn’t even be an insult. It’s no more than the truth.

‘If Gabriel finds out, you’re dead, you know that, right? I hope he asks me to do it. I hope it’s my hands around your fragile little neck.’

Crowley pushes himself away from the wall. He’s going to walk back onto the stage and go back to pretending, Hastur be damned.

‘Oh, did I forget to mention?’ says Hastur before Crowley can take a single step, ‘Gabriel wants you to have dinner with him tonight. Eight o’clock.’

Crowley’s breath catches on the way in. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much that he presses his hand to his chest. Somehow he still manages to make his body move.

‘Don’t be late,’ Hastur croons after him, ‘Serpent.’

The rehearsal continues. Time refuses to stop, won’t even pause. Anathema returns and Aziraphale moves further away, makes comments from the wings, one moment encouraging Newt through his stage fright, the next toning down Raven’s rather overenthusiastic nastiness. He barely pays Crowley any attention at all.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

Anathema is peering at him in concern.

‘Been trying to talk to you,’ she says. 

It occurs to Crowley then that he has known this bohemian nutcase for around two years. They might even, he supposes, if he were to have such a thing, be considered friends. What would she say, he wonders, if he told her everything? 

‘You alright?’ Anathema asks.

‘No.’ The word slips out before he can catch it. ‘Yes, fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’

‘Charming.’

Crowley runs his hand through his hair. His appearance should be of paramount concern if he’s having dinner with Gabriel. He’ll want him in something tight, no doubt. Full make-up. Hair, loose and wavy? Or tightly braided? Aziraphale had braided his hair the night before last, kissed him on the forehead, told him he was beautiful. Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s no stranger to getting himself into awful situations but he has to admit, he’s really outdone himself this time.

Anathema starts to speak but breaks off. When Crowley opens his eyes, he sees Aziraphale walking towards them. As if she’s heard his silent plea for reprieve, Anathema gives Crowley one last look and then turns on her heel to face their writer.

‘I think we’re done for today, boss.’

‘Right, yes, of course. Very good, everyone. Thank you so much.’

Crowley listens to the sounds of the rest of the cast leaving but something odd is happening to his vision, he can’t seem to see anyone but Aziraphale.

‘You were quite brilliant in that last scene, my dear. I would dearly love to hear you say those words again later.’

Aziraphale doesn’t reach for him. He’s speaking so quietly, no one else would have heard, but still Crowley flinches away. He doesn’t know where Hastur is but he’ll be somewhere close, watching, spying. Whose side is he on anyway? Not Crowley’s, that’s for sure.

‘Gabriel wants me to have dinner with him tonight.’

Crowley blurts it out, slices the air with it. They’d had plans with each other. As if either of them have any right to have plans. And now Aziraphale is looking at Crowley like this news, that both of them should have been expecting, has utterly devastated him.

‘You knew,’ Crowley says because he can’t bear it, can’t bear Aziraphale looking at him like that, ‘You knew this would happen.’

Aziraphale nods, slowly, very reluctantly.

‘But I can still see you tonight, can’t I?’ he asks, his voice very small, ‘Afterwards?’

Crowley doesn’t know how long dinner with Gabriel is going to take, doesn’t care. He should have ended things with Aziraphale after the first night. There never should have been a first night. He says yes even as he feels their world of make believe slipping through his fingers.

‘I’ll come to you,’ Crowley says and Aziraphale offers him a brave smile. It feels real, that smile, and the ache deep in Crowley’s ruined heart feels real too. It feels so fucking real.

‘I’ll see you tonight then,’ says Aziraphale and then, under his breath, in place of a kiss, he adds, ‘I love you.’

Crowley makes it back to his room. His vision is still hazy around the edges but it’s fine, he’s got plenty of time. He knocks half his make up on the floor reaching for the crimson lipstick but it’s fine, he’s fine. His chest is burning like fire and when he runs the back of his hand across his forehead it comes away wet. Nerves, that’s all. There’s a lot riding on the evening. Has to get it right.

But it’s fine.

He’s absolutely fine.

‘I can’t wake him.’

‘Fuck’s sake. Try harder. Gabriel’s waiting.’

‘Beez, look at him! Crowley’s not going anywhere tonight.’

‘FUCK!’

‘He needs a doctor.’

‘What’s a doctor going to do, Dagon? We both know it’s too late for that.’

‘We need to tell him.’

‘Tell who? Gabriel? He’ll ruin us. Not that it’ll matter if you can’t get this idiot back on his feet. If Gabriel walks out now, it’s over.’

‘I meant we should tell Crowley. He has a right to…’

‘He has the right to do as he’s fucking told and he’s not going to do that if he knows he’s dying, is he? Do what you can. If he’s not conscious in ten minutes, you can send someone for a bloody doctor.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to sell what’s left of my soul for some more damn time.’


	10. Chapter 10

_London, 1888_

The atmosphere in the house is strained and cold, states so familiar to the one who creeps along the second floor hallway that he does not yet realise that there are other ways for a home to be. He is a boy still and yet others have begun to glimpse in him the man he will become. No one, it seems, likes what they see.

And now this.

The boy creeps towards the sound of voices. He won’t have to get much closer to the dining room, his father has never been quiet about expressing his disapproval.

‘Does he have any idea how much I pay for that school of his?’

‘He knows.’

His mother’s voice is quieter but it’s sharper too. She has never needed to waste words to do damage.

‘And this is acceptable, is it? Have you seen this?’

‘I’ve seen.’

‘He’s failing Latin.’

‘Yes.’

‘And as for sports.’ His father clears his throat, reads the next part straight from the report. ‘Aziraphale shows no aptitude whatsoever for athleticism, his performance in all team based sport this term has been nothing short of woeful.’

The way his father emphasises these last four words makes the boy shrink further into himself. He tried, he really did try.

‘I’ve already found a Latin tutor,’ his mother says, her lack of comment on his physical abilities speaking for itself.

His father scoffs.

‘There aren’t enough hours in the day to tutor that boy in each and every thing he lacks. It’s time he got his head out of the clouds and started taking his future seriously. There’s already enough talk.’

‘I’ll speak to him,’ his mother says, ‘He will not be permitted to shame this family.’

‘Little late for that.’

The sting of his father’s caustic words makes the boy recoil. He has heard enough.

As he tiptoes back to the limited safety his room offers, he blinks away the tears he’s not allowed to shed, swallowing the pain he’s not meant to acknowledge.

It won’t matter how many tutors are found or how many hours he spends studying, the boy is realising now. If he puts in the time to excel at one thing, he’ll likely fail at something else and the failure is all his parents will see. He cannot be brilliant, he will never be enough.

And so, there in his room, with his back to the closed bedroom door, the boy chooses a different path. There’s no glory in it, there will be no praise, no joy, but he hopes it will bring him a measure of peace.

Right there, at twelve years old, Aziraphale begins the lifelong process of becoming invisible.

_Paris, 1900_

After Anathema persuades him to have dinner with her and the rest of the bohemians, Aziraphale hurries back to the lodging house, not wanting there to be the slightest chance that Crowley will turn up and find him absent.

There in his room he waits, unable to sit still, unable to write, mind churning with all the possibilities of what Crowley might be doing with the Duke. The memories of all they have done together swirl in the air until Aziraphale thinks he might choke on them. 

Crowley is coming, he tells himself firmly. He just has to be patient, just has to wait a little longer. 

Midnight comes and goes and only then does Aziraphale finally allow himself to admit that he was wrong. 

He lies awake the rest of the night, staring up at the ceiling, breathing in and out with slow precision, trying not to think.

The knock on the door comes just after dawn. A minute later and Crowley is sitting on Aziraphale’s bed, wrapped in a blanket, pale and drawn. There are shadows beneath his eyes and he's wheezing with every inhale. He's unwell, it's plain to see.

Aziraphale should not be doubting him but still, he asks again, ‘Why didn’t you come to me last night?’

Crowley, who has been staring out of the window, tugs the blanket a little tighter around him before he says, ‘I told you, I was ill.’

‘You don’t have to lie to me.’

Crowley opens his mouth and then closes it again. He looks as miserable as Aziraphale feels.

‘We have to end it.’

It comes out of the blue. An arrow. A sword to the gut.

‘What?’

Crowley swallows, tries again.

‘Not sure what Beez told him but Gabriel wasn’t happy that I didn’t go to him last night. He’s going to be at rehearsals from now on. And on opening night…’

‘He won’t suspect a thing,’ says Aziraphale, cutting Crowley off before he can hear confirmation of what he dreads most, ‘We’ll be more careful, I’ll…’

‘You’ll what?’ Crowley says, a painful twist to his words, ‘How long did you think we could keep doing this? You…you can’t…’

He starts to cough. Aziraphale is by his side in an instant, rubbing Crowley’s back in slow, smooth circles as the coughing slowly subsides.

‘Better?’

Crowley doesn’t answer, goes back to staring out of the window as if he is wishing himself someplace else.

Aziraphale is still touching him, a hand on his back, but Crowley shows no reaction at all. Being ignored raises a familiar, dull ache behind Aziraphale’s breast bone but if Crowley wants to end it, there’s nothing he can do. Better to let it happen, withdraw without a fuss, make things easy for everyone. If there’s one thing Aziraphale knows how to do it’s disappear.

This time though, this time he’s at least going to try before he steps back, fades into the peeling wallpaper.

‘Is this what you want, Crowley?’

Crowley stiffens beneath his touch. It takes him a long time to answer and when he does, his voice is hollow.

‘Gabriel will be watching. He’ll know.’

It’s not a yes. It’s not a no. Aziraphale shifts position ever so slightly and is rewarded almost immediately as Crowley leans back into him.

‘Never wanted this,’ Crowley says, sending a spike of agony through Aziraphale’s heart which is soothed the moment he adds, ‘Never wanted to put you in danger.’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says, realising several things at once, ‘Oh, Crowley.’

Crowley is scared for him. He’s scared and that’s why he’s pushing him away. It's not what he wants, it's what he feels he needs to do. Aziraphale's heart squeezes tight but it's a good kind of pain, a better kind of pain than loss. Crowley's courage has got them this far, if they’re to go any further Aziraphale will need to screw up his own.

‘Forgive me, my dear. I fear I’m only beginning to understand how brave you’ve had to be.’

Crowley makes a huff of sound that might have been intended as a laugh. It is certainly a denial.

‘You are, my dear. So brave, and strong, and good.’

‘Stop!’ Crowley pulls away with sudden force, glaring back in anger. ‘I am _not_ good, angel. Never have been.’

His rebuttal is so instantaneous, so well-practiced that Aziraphale can tell Crowley truly believes it.

‘That’s not true,’ Aziraphale says, soft but sure, ‘I know you, Crowley.’

‘Do you?’

The question is barely a whisper and yet it echoes through Aziraphale's head like the shout from a mountain top. Does he? Does he know Crowley? The answer comes back the same every time.

‘Yes.’

Crowley looks like he’s about to argue, fury still pinching the corners of his mouth. Then with a ragged exhale he lets it all go, exhaustion already winning out over emotion.

‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’

The resignation in those words, the quiet despair. Aziraphale's soul aches with recognition. He might have been working on hiding himself from others since he was a child but he's always known deep down who he is and what he's trying to protect. Crowley, however, is invisible even to himself. If Aziraphale steps back this time, if he allows himself to vanish, Crowley will be lost too. Aziraphale cannot stand for that. It’s time to let himself be known.

‘I love you, Crowley. The Duke can’t change that, nothing can.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I do, my dear, and I won’t be jealous.’

When Aziraphale reaches for his hand Crowley tries to resist him but it’s a weak effort and Aziraphale does not let go. He needs Crowley to know that this is important. This is everything.

‘I’ll write a poem and I’ll put it in the play. It’ll be our secret, our promise to one another that whatever happens, we’ll always have each other.’

‘Angel, we can’t.’

Crowley sounds so lost, so distressed that Aziraphale decides he can only push a little further.

‘If it’s too big of a risk, we won’t meet,’ he says, ‘We won’t see each other outside of rehearsals, but I’m not giving up.’

Crowley watches as Aziraphale raises his hand to his lips. He is not smiling. 

‘A secret poem, huh?’

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s hand again.

‘The best one I’ve ever written. I promise.’

It's not much, it's not enough, but as Crowley's gaze drifts away once more, Aziraphale holds tight to hope. 

Crowley is wearing a skirt for the first time since rehearsals began. He looks devastatingly beautiful, his hair pinned up, drawing significant attention to the long, white column of his neck. Aziraphale wants to plant a fierce kiss there, use his teeth, bruise the skin and mark him so that Gabriel knows that he can’t have everything. The thought frightens him a little even though he knows it’s just that, just a thought. In any case, Crowley will barely look at him.

Before they enter the theatre, Crowley pauses, closes his eyes. Aziraphale reaches for his hand, their fingers barely brushing. Crowley shivers at the contact and walks ahead of him, does not look back.

Aziraphale has been working on their poem all morning and he intones a few lines of it to himself silently, hoping against hope that Crowley believes him when he says he won’t give up. He’d barely spoken while Aziraphale worked, his silence almost as wounding as his absence the previous night.

 _Come what may_ , Aziraphale thinks fiercely, desperately, _I will love you_.

There is silence again now as Crowley walks towards the Duke. Seated right in the middle of the front row, Gabriel’s pale suit gleams in a way that’s almost offensive. Everything about his attire, his expression, his demeanour makes a single explicit demand: impress me. Aziraphale feels a sharp pang as Crowley comes to a halt, allows himself to be judged.

‘This will be interesting.’

Anathema has joined him, her dark eyes flicking from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again. She looks just a shade too knowing and Aziraphale cannot stand it. He means to keep his promise. He’s not going to be jealous. Gabriel may have paid for Crowley but that’s all it is, a transaction for survival. It’s not real, it's not love.

‘Shall we get on with it then?’ Anathema asks, pushing her glasses up her nose. It’s as good a suggestion as any.

‘Places,’ Aziraphale says, clapping his hands, finding it hard to make his voice carry, ‘Places, everyone.’

Gabriel has his hands on Crowley’s skirt, he’s holding Crowley to him and Aziraphale thinks something in him might snap in two if he does not let go. It’s several minutes before Gabriel releases him and Crowley is permitted to join them on stage. His expression is unnervingly blank and though Aziraphale tries to catch his eye, Crowley seems not to notice.

‘Right then,’ Aziraphale says, hoping the shake in his voice isn’t obvious, ‘From the top!’

Gabriel has opinions. Important and strident opinions that he has no problem stopping the entire rehearsal to deliver. After a few of these interruptions, the cast begins to fall silent whenever Gabriel gets to his feet. It could not be clearer that this reaction is one Gabriel very much appreciates.

Aziraphale grinds his teeth and attempts to approximate a gracious smile but it gets harder and harder each time. 

‘Yes, thank you ever so much,’ he says, once Gabriel has finished telling Crowley and Anathema where to stand in a scene they had been performing quite perfectly, ‘Your input is much appreciated but I am very aware of the time. Is there any chance we could move things along, Duke?’

Asking his permission is the right move and Gabriel gives a magnanimous as-you-wish gesture before sitting back down. Crowley, Aziraphale notices, shoots Gabriel a small smile.

‘As you were then,’ says Aziraphale, swallowing the hurt and pushing it down as far as it will go, ‘And remember, this is where our two lovers realise they are made for one another. There can be no doubting it.’

‘Oh, they won’t,’ said Anathema and, without further ado, she grabs Crowley, dips him and kisses him hard on the mouth. The cast whoop and cheer. Crowley is laughing as Anathema grins down at him, winking.

‘CROWLEY!’

Gabriel’s shout thunders through the theatre.

Anathema is already mouthing sorry-sorry as she helps Crowley up. Gabriel is up off his seat, both fists clenched at his sides and Aziraphale can’t let Crowley go within touching distance of him, he just can’t. He has to do something.

‘Thank you, Duke,’ he says, raising his voice far beyond the level at which he feels comfortable, ‘I agree, that’s quite enough of that. We have a play to perform and if you’re not going to take rehearsals seriously Anathema I will simply have to find someone to replace you. Professionalism is a requirement not a request.’

Aziraphale does not dare look behind him to see Gabriel’s reaction but he sees other members of the cast glance that way. Crowley, however, is staring right at him. When their eyes meet, Crowley raises his eyebrows a fraction. A moment later, when Tracy and Shadwell move so they are blocking them both from view, he mouths, ‘Thank you.’

The rest of the rehearsal goes rather well, all things considered. When they break for lunch, Gabriel takes possession of Crowley immediately and they do not return until everyone else has taken their positions and are ready to resume. Gabriel only stays for another half hour after that before taking his leave and there’s not a person in the cast who is sorry to see him go. Anathema immediately rushes to Crowley, apologies pouring from her but Crowley waves them away.

‘I can cope with someone shouting my name, I’m not that fragile.’

His hands shake as he frees his hair from its tight ponytail making this statement hard to believe but no one mentions it.

Aziraphale finds himself becoming increasingly anxious as the end of the rehearsal approaches. He assumes that Crowley will be joining Gabriel once more, and his fears are rising up, dancing up in front of his eyes like flame. When Dagon calls his name, he finds himself snapping at her before he can stop himself.

‘Dreadfully sorry,’ he says, regaining his composure with some effort, ‘I’m not quite myself. How may I help you?’

Dagon glares at him, unimpressed with his original tone.

‘I’m going to need Crowley on Wednesday.’

There are several costume changes required for Crowley and he’ll need to be fitted for each one. It was an inevitability that he’d have to be absent from rehearsals at some point.

‘Do you know how long you might need?’ Aziraphale asks.

‘The whole morning,’ says Dagon, ‘At least.’

Aziraphale nods. It’s far from ideal, there aren’t many scenes without Crowley but there are things they can work on and Aziraphale does need time to finish the climactic poem that reunites the lovers. Lost in thought, it is a few moments before Aziraphale realises that Dagon has yet to walk away.

‘I feel I should tell you that Gabriel has personally requested some alterations to the costumes.’

‘All of them?’

‘No, not all. Just Crowley’s.’

Aziraphale runs a hand along his jaw, trying to ease out the new tension it seems to be carrying.

‘What kind of alternations?’

‘Oh, you know,’ says Dagon, turning her head to look over at Crowley, ‘Tighter, shorter, more expensive, that kind of thing. He has a specific vision for Crowley’s character, or so he tells me.’

‘Right,’ says Aziraphale, ‘Well, perhaps you can let me know if Crowley has any objections during the fitting.’

At this, Dagon looks back at him.

‘If Crowley has objections?’

‘Yes,’ says Aziraphale with heavy emphasis, ‘Crowley will be the one wearing the costumes on stage, after all. If he’s not happy with them, I shall take it up with Gabriel myself.’

Dagon laughs, a ragged bark of a thing. Her teeth as she bears them in a grin are peculiarly pointed.

‘Will you now?’ she says, ‘Make sure you let me know when you do because that I would very much like to see.’

When Dagon takes her leave, Aziraphale is glad to turn his attention back to the stage but Crowley, he realises with a jolt, is already gone. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't expecting to get this chapter finished so quickly :). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the last bit of calm before the storm.

Wednesday morning finds Crowley leaning with both hands flat against the wall in front of him as Dagon laces him into a corset so tight that he’ll soon feel his heartbeat in his fucking throat. Beez has arrived to supervise so Crowley bites down on his lip and keeps all protests inside. He’s not about to get any sympathy from them.

‘Not sure about this,’ Dagon says, to Beez naturally. Crowley’s opinion is not required even though the black spots blooming in his vision suggest that he might benefit from being consulted.

‘What Gabriel wants he gets,’ says Beez, sounding bored.

Since Crowley woke with a doctor drawing blood from him and the world spinning four days ago, Beez has been even more hostile than usual towards him. They have confirmed nothing but if rumour is to be believed they had offered themselves in Crowley’s place that night, anything to stop Gabriel from leaving. Crowley finds it hard to imagine that this required any more of them than making some awkward conversation, forcing food past their lips and promising Crowley’s everlasting obedience from then on, but apparently being civil for a few hours is far more of a sacrifice than Beez deems appropriate. 

‘Beez,’ Dagon sounds imploring which is not like her at all, ‘This is not a good idea.’

Dagon has let go of the corset’s ribbons. Temporarily freed Crowley fights against the urge to run. Wouldn’t get far. He leans harder against the wall, tries to imagine himself somewhere else. Somewhere safe. 

‘For fuck’s sake.’

Beez pushes Dagon out of the way and all the remaining air in Crowley’s lungs is forced out. He’s pretty sure he actually blacks out for a few seconds. Snatches of Beez and Dagon’s resulting argument come to him but he can’t make sense of any of it.

‘Gabriel wants him dead before opening night, does he?’

‘I’m not giving him another excuse to turn and run.’

‘Just leave it to me. Crowley’s no good to anyone like this.’

Beez makes one of their hornet trapped in a glass bottle noises before stomping their way out of the room.

‘Right, this is coming off,’ says Dagon, undoing the corset ribbons so that Crowley, at last, can throw the damn thing aside.

‘Fuck,’ he says, weakly.

‘Sit down,’ Dagon instructs, ‘We can do the rest later.’

Crowley sits, slumps really. The pain in his chest is staggering. He feels the mortifying and entirely unforgivable urge to cry. He masters it, just, while watching Dagon arrange his next costume on a mannequin, getting ready to pull in the waist as instructed. The material looks soft at least though no doubt Gabriel will have the hem raised to just below his thighs. The man seems to be on a mission to make sure the whole world knows he’s tamed himself a wild whore.

‘Been ordered to change my pronouns.’

Dagon won’t care which is why Crowley keeps talking. He just needs to get it out, cough it up and be rid of it. His pronouns have shifted and changed before but it’s always been by choice. He’s never had them dictated to him before, not by anyone. 

‘The Duke wants a wife so that’s that.’

Wife. Gabriel’s wife. The thought makes Crowley feel sick. Being someone’s whore is temporary, the nature of the gig, but becoming a wife is steel trap. Crowley pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger to distract himself from the rising panic.

Across the room Dagon continues pinning fabric. It will be a beautiful dress once she is through with it, that much is obvious. Perhaps she could design his wedding dress too. No, that won't happen. Gabriel has made it abundantly clear that he will not be lowering himself to keep company with creatures of the underworld a moment longer than he has to.

‘Once I’ve made a success of this place, things are going to be very different.’

Gabriel’s breath had been thick with wine before they’d even sat down to dinner the previous night. Crowley had fought hard not to bar his tongue entry. He’d thought of Aziraphale, told himself that he was doing all of this for him. Going along with this awful plan for his own sake was no longer enough. He might be saving himself from selling his body to the highest bidder but freedom had never been part of the deal. 

‘You’re lucky I’ve decided to marry you.’ Gabriel’s teeth had grazed Crowley’s throat. ‘Who else would do that? Who else would even consider it?’ 

Crowley watches Dagon’s hands as she threads a needle. He imagines the needle travelling through the material, through his skin, sewing him into the dress that will end his life. He can see himself standing in a church caged in white that might turn black under God’s judgemental gaze, might turn red, might catch fire before Crowley can choke on his vows.

Would there be anyone there in the crowd of onlookers for him? Would Beez come to round off the transaction they have worked so hard to guarantee? Would Aziraphale slip in the back and hold his hat tight in his hands through the ceremony, throw white petals when everyone else does then vanish before Gabriel can place him? Crowley will wish him there, he’ll hope against hope for some kind of reprieve that he knows won’t come, doesn’t ever come for people like him.

No matter what happens to him Crowley will spend the rest of his life thinking of Aziraphale, hoping that he’s found someone to write his poems for, someone worthy, someone good. But he’ll never know. Once the play is over, Crowley will never see Aziraphale again and the truth of it is as sharp as needlepoint.

‘Everything okay in here?’

As if Crowley's thoughts have summoned him Aziraphale chooses that moment to peer round the door, his presence a brightness that burns. Dagon does not do him the courtesy of even looking up.

‘Need more pins,’ she says and just like that, they are alone.

Crowley focuses on keeping his breathing steady and calm. They haven’t seen each other outside of rehearsals since Crowley ended things. Aziraphale has not asked to, not once. And it's good, it's safer that way, and if Crowley's entire body and soul aches for him, well, that's his burden to bear. Nothing's going to happen between them now. Crowley repeats this to himself like a mantra. Nothing's going to happen. It's over. 

Aziraphale moves into the room and starts to examine the rack of costumes that Dagon has been working on.

‘These are exquisite.’

Crowley makes a soft sound that means nothing at all. He doesn’t want to be forced to express an opinion. Dress him up, tell him what to say, where to stand. Just don’t make him choose. Don’t let him have the illusion that he is anything but a toy for people to use and dispose of when they are done.

‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale is frowning at him, eyes full of concern. Concern for him. Crowley is suddenly very aware that he is wearing lipstick. He wants to see it smeared all over Aziraphale’s face, take the edge off all that perfection, make it his.

‘You can tell me if there are any issues with the costumes. If there’s a problem, I can get it sorted out.’

Aziraphale is moving closer. Crowley will have to say something. As long as he doesn’t say what he wants to say, it’ll be fine.

‘No problems.’

Crowley’s emotions are too close to the surface. If Aziraphale doesn’t leave in the next minute, they might all spill out, make one hell of a mess.

‘Darling?’

Crowley grinds his teeth together to stop himself from saying or doing anything he might regret. Like kiss the man who just called him darling. Although maybe they should kiss, at least then Aziraphale would stop looking at him with questions in his eyes. He’s a damn sight less observant when he’s hazy with desire. That’s all this is after all, lust. A different four letter word to the one Aziraphale insists on using.

But they can’t kiss. They should never have kissed.

‘My dear, are you sure you’re alright?’

‘Always.’

Crowley cannot hold his gaze any longer and drops his eyes to the floor. Why is it so difficult to look at him? Why can’t he just pretend the way he always does? Why is it so hard to resist sinking to his knees and begging Aziraphale to lie to him just once more?

_Tell me I’m loved, angel. Tell me I’m worthy of it. Tell me you’ll keep your promise and fight for me, come what may._

Crowley sees the splash of the first tear hitting the floor but it takes two more for him to realise that he’s started to cry. He tries to stop, he needs to stop. He can’t.

Aziraphale’s hand is tight around his. Crowley is pretty sure there are various other urgent things that require his attention but he can’t focus on any of them because Aziraphale is holding his hand, holding his hand and leading him somewhere. By the time Crowley realises where they’re heading it seems pointless to try and change course. It’s a stupidly obvious place to go, maybe the worst place, but the elephant has yet to betray them so Crowley is willing to play the odds once again. The moment they’re inside, door shut, Aziraphale lets go.

‘Crowley, I…’

‘Shut up.’

Does he say it out loud or just think it? Does he really grab Aziraphale and push him up against the wall or is he dreaming? Which one of them is breathing like that?

Who kisses who first?

Doesn’t matter, they need to be closer, too many clothes on, too little time.

At last Crowley has Aziraphale pinned beneath him on the bed, bright red lipstick marks all over his chest, his neck, his gorgeous face. Crowley can’t stop staring, can’t stop wanting. He is full of a recklessness that borders on hysteria. If he doesn’t reign himself in, he’s going to ruin this. Crowley focuses on the softness of Aziraphale’s skin, caressing and kissing, until he has reclaimed himself enough to say, ‘You’re beautiful.’

Aziraphale’s eyes, closed in bliss, open to regard Crowley warily.

‘Am I?’

Crowley blinks. He can’t believe he’s ever let Aziraphale doubt his own splendour for even a second. Fucking unforgivable of him.

‘I have the best view,’ he says, ‘And the deciding vote so yeah, you are.’

‘Oh…well, I…’

Aziraphale breaks off, unable to hold a conversation and feel all he’s feeling at the same time, something Crowley has some sympathy for but not enough to stop his hands from wandering where they may.

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale manages with a pleading look up through golden lashes, ‘Perhaps we could discuss this another time?’

Crowley laughs and a delicious blush spreads across Aziraphale’s chest.

‘Whatever you say, angel.’

It might be the last time, it damn well should be, and Crowley knows exactly what to do to ensure Aziraphale remembers him forever. This is his domain after all. He doesn’t need lines or second chances or some rich bastard’s money to get this right.

The predictability of pleasure makes Crowley feel in control for the first time in days. He doesn’t care about his own, the only thing he wants is Aziraphale panting and perfect, exactly as he is now, blissed out and utterly, spectacularly beautiful.

Afterwards, Crowley kisses the gratitude from Aziraphale’s lips, tries to ignore the way exhaustion is pressing down on him already, threatening to smother the joy. Aziraphale reaches up, twines a strand of Crowley’s hair around his fingers, smiles happily. It hurts to be looked at like that, like he’s something precious, so Crowley kisses him again, partly to stop the pain of it, partly to give himself the last bit of courage he needs. If he doesn’t say it now he never will, there’s no more time.

Leaning in close, his lips brush Aziraphale’s ear.

‘I love you, angel.’

Aziraphale’s answering look of wonderment is soft as sunrise.

They remain entwined, Crowley drifting on the edge of consciousness. Aziraphale’s chest rises and falls in a steady, soothing rhythm and Crowley finds himself hoping that he might fall asleep to the dream-spell of his heartbeat. If he is really lucky, he might sleep for a hundred years, wake up to a different world, a different life.

‘What’s the time, dear?’

Crowley doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about where they should be or why there’s any reason to move.

‘They’ll come looking for us.’

Aziraphale’s fingertips make gentle movements across Crowley’s back, reminding him not to fall asleep. He’s right, they do need to get up. It’s a miracle their absence has gone unnoticed this long. Rehearsals await and then more hours of not being together, not doing this. Crowley closes his eyes, breathes Aziraphale in. The ending is written for them, neither of them can change it, and yet he hopes, he wants, he breaks.

‘Angel?’

‘Yes?’

‘Remember me.’

Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him.

‘Always, dearest,’ he whispers.

His touch is filling Crowley with soft, warm light. He’s not ready to go back to the darkness.

‘Tell me one of your poems.’

‘One poem,’ Aziraphale says, ‘And then I'm afraid we really must go.’ 

His voice is silk and music and though it’s a ridiculous fantasy Crowley lets himself believe that being loved by this man is all he’ll ever need.


	12. Chapter 12

The cast are in full costume, the dancers finally in sync with one another. Even the imbecilic Shadwell’s lighting has been spot on. They’ve cut it damn close and Gabriel is loath to bestow praise prematurely but it does seem as if he can begin to put his doubts to rest. With not a moment to spare, it finally seems the play is coming together into something befitting his patronage.

Crowley, the centrepiece of the whole production, is every bit as radiant as Gabriel requires him to be. So radiant in fact that Gabriel is finding it increasingly difficult to pay attention to the rest of the performance, to those details no one else can be trusted to correct. He means to scrutinise everything but whenever Crowley is on stage, Gabriel is mesmerised. Never before has anyone had this form of hold on him and though Gabriel sees it as proof that he has invested wisely, he cannot help but find it as unsettling as it is alluring. 

They have done no more than kiss. Thus far Gabriel’s attempts to bypass Beelzebub’s infernal contract have all ended in failure and it is, in a word, maddening. Their dinner the previous night had been nothing short of torture. Across the table from him, Crowley had been devastatingly beautiful but undeniably distant all evening, barely paying Gabriel enough attention to qualify as polite let alone anything more tantalising. And yet somehow Crowley’s distraction had served only to amplify Gabriel’s desire. It was deliberate, it had to be. Crowley knew exactly what he was doing.

On stage before him, Crowley is attempting to break it off with Anathema’s sitar player. A weak scene originally but Gabriel has had more than a bit of say in the direction it has taken and he can see now how his superior artistic vision has transformed it entirely. 

‘We have to end it,’ says Crowley, trying to pull away from Anathema who clings to him. Desperate and pathetic, she’s got those down to a fine art.

‘No!’ she says, ‘No, please.’

‘People know.’

‘I don’t care!’ Anathema’s shout carries impressively. ‘Let them see, let them know. I don’t care about anyone else, I never will.’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’ Crowley makes another attempt to free himself. ‘I’m marrying the Baron.’

_Yes, you are_ , Gabriel thinks, crossing his legs.

‘You don’t love him.’

‘I will learn to.’

‘You won’t! You know you won’t. Even if you marry him, you’ll still love me and I’ll still love you. We’ll always have our love, come what may.’

Gabriel is less keen on what comes next, doesn’t like the way Crowley melts in the face of the sitar player’s entreaty. Their secret poem makes his skin crawl. It is a weakness to be undone by pretty words and fail to value what is truly important. Money, power, reputation. A courtesan should count themselves lucky to aspire to be offered such things. But it’s a story, and Gabriel can grudgingly concede that there is some merit in suspending realism if it means a bigger audience, higher profits.

‘Might I have a word, your Dukeness?’

Gabriel is not one to jump but he does startle in a rather dignified way when the occasion calls for it. One of the fallen has crept up on him, though how he managed it when he smells quite so repugnant Gabriel will never know. Hastur, he thinks, recalling the name being hissed by Beez on numerous occasions, is standing alarmingly close.

‘Speak to my manservant,’ Gabriel says, indicating Sandalphon with a curt flick of his fingers.

‘Don’t think you want me to do that,’ Hastur says, ‘What I have to say is best kept for your ears alone.’

The impudence of the man, not to mention the increasingly overpowering stench, would usually have been more than enough reason for Gabriel to banish him from sight but when he glances round he sees that Hastur is staring directly at the stage.

‘Quite a picture they make,’ Hastur continues, eyes sliding from Crowley and Anathema back to Gabriel, ‘Quite the love story.’

There’s a smile growing on his face like mould.

‘Not sure I’m rooting for them though.' 

‘Who?’ Gabriel snaps, because he has to know, has to be sure.

‘The courtesan and the writer, of course.’ Hastur’s eyes gleam with malice even as he places a hand over his mouth in mock horror. ‘Did I say writer? I mean sitar player.’

Gabriel doesn’t need the pointed look Hastur gives to their own writer who is standing to the left of the stage, mouthing the words of the love poem along with the actors. Such pretty, meaningless words.

‘Come what may,’ Anathema says, beaming. 

‘I will love you,’ Crowley returns, ‘Until my dying day.’

They are hand in hand, inches from one another, and yet Crowley’s gaze is not directed at the sitar player he is meant to adore. He is looking over her shoulder, his last words directed to someone else entirely.

Gabriel follows Crowley's line of sight and sees the proof he no longer requires. The writer is blushing to the roots of his hair. 

Gabriel's hands tighten around the arms of his seat. He should have seen it, should have known. The sheer audacity of it, insult upon insult playing out across the very stage he has built and paid for. Humiliation and shame are filling the Duke like lava, awakening the rage that is ever ready to shield him from those things he does not wish to feel. No one on God’s green earth plays him for a fool.

Let there be a reckoning.

Aziraphale is entirely distracted by how well the love poem has been performed to notice that anything is wrong. He’s already thinking ahead to the next scene and the transition to get them there. The set needs to be changed while the fallen perform a dance number, an intricate combination of dexterity and timing that hasn’t quite been mastered to his satisfaction as yet. He’s about to issue some instructions that he hopes will improve things when there is an entirely unwelcome interruption.

‘I don’t like it.’

There can be no doubt as to the speaker, Gabriel has a way of projecting his voice like a weapon. Steeling himself for whatever petty concern the Duke has concocted now, Aziraphale turns but he is unprepared for the sight of Gabriel, fists tight, face like thunder, the full fury of his stormy glare directed right at Crowley. 

Crowley and Anathema break apart, Anathema shooting a mystified look over at Aziraphale which he cannot hope to answer. Whatever has been done to displease the Duke, it seems Crowley has been the one to do it. 

Aziraphale’s throat is painfully dry as he looks from the Duke to Crowley who somehow manages to remain impassive in the face of the hostility being thrown his way. The thick silence remains unbroken for a growing number of excruciating seconds. Someone needs to speak, to sort out whatever needs to be sorted and move things along. Aziraphale musters his courage as best he can.

‘So sorry to hear that, Duke. What is it precisely that displeases you?’

Gabriel does not so much as flick his eyes in Aziraphale’s direction.

‘The ending,’ he says.

This is, to put it mildly, unexpected. They’ve got a fair few scenes to go before they reach the end of the play and Gabriel has never so much as hinted that he had issue with it in any previous rehearsal. A few of the fallen are looking at Aziraphale, waiting for direction, but everyone else is looking at Crowley who remains held by Gabriel’s skewering gaze. That he does not shrink from it makes Aziraphale feel proud and fearful in equal measure. 

‘This ending,’ Gabriel says at last, 'Is ludicrous. It makes no sense. Which one of you would choose love over money?' 

He gestures towards the lot of them but he has not looked away from Crowley. 

Everyone is looking at Crowley now, Aziraphale included, his heart thumping so hard it hurts. Crowley, who must be acutely aware of everyone’s attention, attempts a smile but it is a little too stiff and far too late.

‘It’s a play,’ he says with a small shrug.

‘And that justifies absurdity, does it?’ Gabriel challenges, ‘Who would believe any of this?’

'People don't come here for reality, dear Duke,' says Crowley, airily. 

He begins to walk towards the edge of the stage, towards Gabriel, and with every step he takes Aziraphale’s thoughts become wilder, more desperate. If Gabriel makes a single move to threaten him, Aziraphale will get between them somehow. He will become a shield, a sword. 

‘It makes no sense,’ Gabriel says again, fists still clenched, as Crowley descends the stage stairs, lifting his long skirt with one hand, ‘Money is happiness. Security is happiness.’

The Duke is glaring at Crowley like a predator waiting for his prey to make a fatal error. Crowley must see the danger, he must be afraid, and yet he continues towards Gabriel. He smiles.

‘I quite agree,’ he says and just like that a little more of the tension drains away. He’s doing it, he’s calming the Duke, saving them all.

Aziraphale should be grateful, he should be relieved, and yet the closer Crowley gets to Gabriel, the more combustible he feels. His Crowley, almost within touching distance of such a vile creature, having to pretend that he wants to be there. His brave and beautiful Crowley having to sacrifice himself to save the show. 

‘A ridiculous ending,’ Gabriel says, as if he has not already made his opinion abundantly clear, ‘Why would the courtesan choose a penniless sitar player when the Baron is offering him everything?’

He reaches out for Crowley and for a moment it looks like he might touch him gently, run a hand down his arm perhaps or place a hand on his waist, but instead Gabriel grabs Crowley’s skirt, yanks him closer, for no better reason than he’s angry and he can.

Everything Aziraphale has been trying to hold back flares up at once, taking possession of him, overwhelming all sense, all reason. Gabriel wants to know why, does he? Then let him know. 

‘Because he doesn’t love you!’

The words come roaring out of him, swelling to fill the entire theatre before crashing in on themselves, the shock of what he’s done slamming into Aziraphale like a tsunami.

‘Doesn’t love h-him,’ he stammers, ‘The courtesan doesn’t love him.’

Crowley has half turned towards him and the look on his face shatters what remains of Aziraphale’s heart.

And Gabriel, Gabriel looks like he is about to eat them both alive. 

'Is that so?' 

When he seizes Crowley's arm, Crowley is not the only one who flinches. 

'The ending will change,' Gabriel says, in a tone of icy finality, 'The courtesan will marry the Baron. I will have it my way or there shall be no play. Do I make myself clear?' 

Aziraphale nods, not trusting himself to speak another word.

'You'll have tomorrow morning to rehearse the new finale,' says Gabriel. He has not released Crowley. 'You can have your lead back when I am satisfied with the amendments, and when I am done with him.' 

Anathema tries to speak to him as does Tracy but Aziraphale has been struck dumb by his own catastrophic error. All he can see is the look on Crowley’s face, the look of a prisoner whose chains have locked around him a day too early.

Aziraphale gave the Duke a reason to be furious and then sent Crowley to him. He did that to the person he loves more than his own breath, more than life itself. Aziraphale rests his head against the nearest wall and closes his eyes. It doesn’t make anything better. It doesn’t undo any of it.

The dressing rooms are deserted, no one had wanted to hang around, but evidence of the fallen is everywhere, the place is in disarray. With Beez regularly stalking through no one is foolish enough to forget to properly hang their costume but the same diligence does not seem to apply to taking care of empty glasses and ash trays. Aziraphale starts to pick things up, not even knowing why. He’s got two handfuls of other people’s discarded property when he hears someone cough. Crowley’s dressing room, or so they call the alcove which is reserved for him, is just around the corner. It’s impossible that Crowley will be in there, utterly and hopelessly impossible and yet Aziraphale finds himself running the last few steps.

Crowley is still in full costume, his back to Aziraphale. He’s slumped over slightly, leaning on the cluttered dressing table. There’s a lace scarf draped over the mirror so Aziraphale cannot see his face but he doesn’t need to, reading Crowley's posture tells him all he needs to know. 

‘Crowley?’

Crowley does not straighten up, does not turn. He does, however, let out a small sigh. There is a livid red mark above his elbow from where Gabriel had grabbed him, the sight of it making fresh guilt rise in Aziraphale's throat like bile. 

‘Crowley, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. What can I do? Is there anything I can…?’

‘Need to change,’ Crowley says, ‘Gabriel’s waiting.’

Aziraphale swallows his useless words.

‘Should I...?’

He thinks Crowley is asking for help but Aziraphale cannot touch him without permission. He has done more than enough damage.

‘The dress,’ Crowley says, ‘Please.’

That word alone tears through Aziraphale’s heart like teeth. He practically throws himself across the room in his haste. He is well practiced by now at undressing Crowley but there is nothing sensual in this act. With the dress pooled at Crowley’s feet, Aziraphale begins to undo the lacing of his corset but Crowley says, ‘Leave it.’

Aziraphale drops his hands, ignoring the way they ache with the need to brush Crowley’s hair from his neck so he might plant a kiss there. An impulse that only grows as Crowley rolls his shoulders back and takes a steadying, laboured breath.

‘Crowley…’

‘Don’t.' Crowley sounds wearier than Aziraphale has ever heard him. ‘We both knew this was coming.’

Yes, Aziraphale had known but now that the time is upon them, he realises that he has not ever really believed that Crowley will leave him for the Duke. He wrote a whole play in denial and he is denying the truth even now.

‘You don’t have to do this.’

Crowley tenses, shaking his head. He still hasn’t looked at Aziraphale.

‘Remember what you told me,’ he says, and it’s a whisper, ‘You said you wouldn’t be jealous.’

He points to a chair across the room where a lacier, flimsier dress is waiting. Aziraphale runs the delicate fabric through his fingers before he helps Crowley into it. As soon as the last button is fastened, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley, his face pressed between the bony shoulder blades he loves so much. 

‘I’ll rewrite the ending,’ he says though he knows it’s not enough, 'I'll give the Duke what he wants.' 

‘Too late for that,' Crowley says, 'I’ll get him to change his mind.’

Aziraphale holds Crowley tighter still, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

‘I have to go,’ says Crowley though he makes no move to extricate himself from Aziraphale’s embrace, ‘Come what may, remember?’

The words should reassure him, they are a promise, but Aziraphale finds it hard not to hate them for their emptiness. How could he have thought a poem would ever be enough? 

‘I have to go,’ Crowley says again, sounding more pained with every word. 

Aziraphale clings to him a moment longer but no miraculous plan occurs to him, there is no higher authority to whom to appeal. Crowley must appease the Duke and Aziraphale, though it tears him apart to do it, must do the only thing he can and let him go. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence ahead.

The Tower. Gabriel had to choose to meet in the fucking Tower. Crowley is only a quarter of the way up the damn stairs and he’s already having to stop to catch his breath. Gabriel’s decision to have dinner here isn’t deliberate, it was probably Beez's suggestion anyway, but it certainly feels like punishment as Crowley tries and fails to massage away the pain in his chest.

Maybe he deserves it. Or maybe this is just how heart break feels, like someone is trying to prise his ribs apart with rusty, broken tools.

By the time Crowley reaches the top of the stairs it feels as though he is swallowing glass with every breath. The room at least is dimly lit which does Crowley innumerable favours but ideally he still needs to buy himself some time to recover.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

The candlelight does nothing to soften Gabriel who is standing across the room, his displeasure evident even from a distance. The grim line of his mouth looks to have been carved onto his face with a knife.

‘You have and I grow tired of it. Come here.’

Crowley forces himself away from the wall on which he had been leaning and walks towards Gabriel. He is not sure he has full control over his face yet but Gabriel’s gaze is considerably south of that area so Crowley gets away with it.

‘I approve of that outfit.’

Crowley attempts a smile as Gabriel drags his eyes upwards. Apparently above the neck does not meet with as much approval as the dress. Gabriel reaches out and grips Crowley’s chin.

‘You’ve looked prettier.’

_Fuck you_. The words are there on the tip of Crowley’s tongue. Not that he doubts the accuracy of the assessment, there isn’t enough powder and paint in the world to make him look well right now.

Gabriel continues to inspect him, his fingers burning hot against Crowley’s skin.

‘So tell me,’ he says at last, still holding tight, keeping Crowley’s face tilted towards him, ‘Just how much time have you been spending with the writer?’

Despite the inevitability of this moment, Crowley finds he has no answer prepared.

‘What?’ 

‘You heard me, Crowley.’

‘The writer? I…’ Crowley is finding it harder than it should be to speak around the fear pressing in on him. ‘It’s his play. Can’t really get away from him.’

‘Is that so?’ Gabriel’s mouth thins still further. ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

Gabriel’s nails are digging in now and Crowley does not try and hide the fact it hurts, it’s clearly supposed to. It may be that this is all based on suspicion in which case all Crowley needs to do is convince Gabriel that he’s always the only man in the room as far as Crowley’s concerned. But if they have been betrayed, if Gabriel has any kind of proof, lying will be dangerous. The full truth, however, will certainly get him killed so Crowley skirts around it.

‘It’s nothing,’ he says, ‘An infatuation on his part. He needed inspiration and we needed a writer, but only until tomorrow night.’

‘That was not our arrangement.’

Gabriel begins to force Crowley backwards. Crowley raises a hand, closing it around Gabriel’s wrist but he does not try to free himself. Gabriel wants to exert his authority and it’s Crowley’s job, his entire life’s work, to submit.

‘You are mine,’ says Gabriel as Crowley’s back hits the wall, ‘From this moment onwards until your last breath. Do I make myself clear?’

Crowley nods. He needs to keep the focus solely on him. He’ll do whatever Gabriel wants, agree to anything, if it means Aziraphale gets to leave the Moulin Rouge in one piece.

Gabriel keeps hold of him for another few seconds and then he leans in and presses a fierce kiss to Crowley’s mouth. Teeth hit teeth and Crowley has no time to reciprocate in any way before Gabriel pulls back.

‘Forgiveness is divine,’ he says, his voice a low rumble, ‘But believe me when I say you have no more chances. You’re mine, and you will never forget it again.’ 

They eat, Gabriel commands it. Crowley pushes things around his plate, only raising something to his lips when he suspects Gabriel is watching. Frankly he’s surprised that Gabriel hasn't fucked him up against the wall just to make his point. It’s not as if Crowley would have tried to stop him. Still, the night is young and Gabriel plainly has no intention of rushing anything apart from the wine. Crowley watches him drain glass after glass, wonders whether Gabriel even knows what the night sky looks like sober. The realisation that he’ll soon find out makes faking an appetite exponentially more difficult.

As the meal wears on - _God, will it ever end?_ \- Crowley finds it increasingly difficult to focus on what Gabriel is saying. His heart is beating too fast, the thumping of his pulse in his ears too loud. There’s not enough air in the room and the pain in his chest is building in that way that strongly suggests he only has a certain amount of time before it becomes impossible to ignore. If he collapses or passes out, Gabriel is very likely to consider his weakness a grievous insult at best and an excuse to call off the whole play at worst, so Crowley tries to slow his breathing, force himself to be well. He can do this, no night however grim lasts forever.

'Something wrong with your wine?' Gabriel asks suddenly, jolting Crowley out of his nod and smile routine, 'You've barely touched it.' 

Crowley lifts his glass automatically but his hand shakes so much he almost drops it. Fuck. He's falling apart faster than he can put himself back together. He won't be able to hide it much longer. 

Once the plates are cleared, the meal finished, Crowley waits for Gabriel’s next move. He would usually be the one to direct proceedings at this point, leading without appearing to, but Crowley cannot trust himself to stand let alone decide what to do once he has. Fortunately it seems that Gabriel has his own ideas.

‘I have something for you.’

Gabriel rises, moves behind Crowley. With no warning, Crowley feels something being drawn around his throat. Stifling a gasp, he reaches up, his fingers meeting the cold links of an ornate necklace. 

‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’

Gabriel fastens the necklace, drawing it tight around Crowley’s throat. Fighting against a rising panic, Crowley lets his fingers dance over the stones.

‘Are they…diamonds?’

Gabriel leans down, kisses the back of Crowley’s neck.

‘I’ve heard they’re a girl’s best friend.’

Crowley makes a little sound that even he does not know how to interpret. As Gabriel begins to trail kisses along his shoulder Crowley tries to close his mind down. He should be able to shut down the connection to his body for as long as it takes but the man he's with is not going to leave after an hour or a day or even a week. This time Crowley is going to need to cut those ties to his true self off forever. No part of him wants to do this and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe.

‘I…I need some air.’

He half expects Gabriel to protest, maybe even see this as a challenge that he has to crush but instead he offers his hand and guides Crowley over to the balcony. He makes an admiring sound the moment the moonlight falls over Crowley. No doubt the diamonds look stunning. Crowley pulls his hand gently from Gabriel’s and reaches for the railing. The distance to the stone below makes his stomach plunge but Crowley still leans forwards, testing the integrity of the barrier, the only thing between him and oblivion.

‘What do you think of the view from here?’ Gabriel asks.

Crowley blinks and the lights of Paris come into focus.

‘After tomorrow, you’ll be a real actress and soon everyone in this city and beyond will know your name. Thanks to me, all your dreams will come true.' 

Crowley doesn’t remember sharing his dreams with Gabriel or with anyone. He’s not sure he’s ever had any aim in mind beyond staying alive. Survival was all there was, at least until he met Aziraphale. Crowley’s gaze falls to the courtyard below once more. Even from this distance there can be no mistaking that bright halo of hair. He’s summoned his angel into being, brought him as close as they’re allowed to be.

_He’s my dream_ , Crowley thinks. _Just him_.

He should draw Gabriel back into the room before he has the chance to spot Aziraphale for himself, but Crowley cannot look away. He wants Aziraphale to keep walking and disappear but his angel goes on standing there, looking so very small, standing alone in the cold.

Fuck, how Crowley loves him.

‘Come what may.’

The words fall from his lips like prayer, like a promise, and Crowley finds himself smiling though there is no chance Aziraphale will see. On his right, Gabriel turns slowly to face him.

‘What did you say?’

And Crowley, his eyes still locked on Aziraphale standing motionless below them, says, ‘Nothing.’

Gabriel moves closer, disbelieving. Crowley tears his eyes away from his angel but it’s too late. Gabriel has seen. He’s heard. He knows.

‘The writer,’ he spits. 

Gabriel’s hand closes vice like around Crowley's arm and he is jerked away from the railing back inside the room. He is released quickly but before Crowley can attempt to say anything to diffuse the situation, Gabriel strikes him with a vicious backhand across the face. Crowley barely stays on his feet, the taste of blood on his tongue as Gabriel grabs him again this time by the neck.

‘I knew you were a whore,’ he says, squeezing so that the diamonds press into Crowley’s throat, ‘But I did not know you were a fool.’ 

In one swift movement, Gabriel has slipped his hand beneath the necklace and Crowley feels the fastening snap. Free from their chains, diamonds fall like stars.

‘I’m offering you everything.’

Gabriel reaches up and pulls at Crowley’s hair until it too falls free of its pins. He buries a hand in it, yanking Crowley’s head back.

‘And I can take it all away.’

One of the straps of Crowley’s dress rips easily as Gabriel grasps and pulls.

‘You will choose me. _This_ is how the story ends.' 

Crowley is meant to agree, sink to his knees and plead, say he was wrong and that he'll do everything he's told forever and ever amen. Might even work. Despite the fury twisting Gabriel’s features, Crowley thinks there’s a chance appeasing him is still possible. And yet he remains standing, refusing to give in. Aziraphale was right, no one can own him. 

Crowley is no longer looking to save his own life, he's saving his soul. 

‘You can’t make me love you.’

Gabriel hits him so hard in the stomach that it is only the hand tangled in his hair that stops Crowley from doubling over.

‘What do you know of love? You're nothing, less than nothing.' 

Fear and pain are fighting inside Crowley for dominance but still he meets Gabriel’s eyes, hoping defiance is all that’s visible. Gabriel hisses through clenched teeth as he leans in closer.

‘Get on your knees.’

Time slows. Crowley can feel his heart beating in his throat, his pulse counting down the seconds he has left to live. Gabriel is going to destroy him. The certainty of this should be paralysing but instead it affords Crowley a sort of clarity. He cannot overpower Gabriel and no one is coming to his rescue, but Crowley is going to fight back anyway. He’s going to make damn sure Aziraphale knows that he tried. This thought fills Crowley with the kind of strength he had forgotten he had, strength that fills him like fire in the night.

Certain of Crowley's compliance, Gabriel is already loosening his grip to permit him to kneel. When he starts reaching for his belt it’s easier than it should be for Crowley to bring his own knee up between Gabriel's legs. The force might not be as considerable as he’d hoped but the aim is true and Gabriel’s shriek as knee meets groin tells Crowley all he needs to know.

‘Bitch!’

Crowley scrambles away from Gabriel, tries to aim for the door but his head is spinning, the floor tilting. He staggers sideways into the table, clinging to it to stop himself from falling. Gabriel is already recovering enough to spit curses at him, he’s been incapacitated for seconds only, nowhere near long enough for Crowley to capitalise on his minor advantage.

‘You can’t escape me.’

Gabriel’s fist slams into his back, sending Crowley to the floor.

‘I own you.’

His kick drives every remaining bit of breath from Crowley’s lungs.

‘You are mine!’

The next kick and something inside Crowley breaks with an audible crack. The pain is everywhere, on top of him, inside him, scraping out all that's good, sinking its teeth into everything it can reach. Crowley tries to push through it, get back up, but Gabriel kicks him back down and this time Crowley stays there.

‘You deserve this.’ Rough hands rip at Crowley’s already torn dress. ‘I want you to remember that.’

Crowley’s not getting enough air, Gabriel is crushing him and it's pointless, utterly pointless to keep fighting. 

‘Gabriel…please…’

Gabriel grows still, his hands on Crowley's hips. A pause, the tiniest reprieve. Crowley can’t breathe, can’t move, his existence dependent on finding something to cling to. With precious few options remaining, he starts to count. If he makes it to ten, he tells himself, there's a chance he'll survive this. 

He’s at four when Gabriel grabs him by the shoulder and flips him over. Pain explodes throughout Crowley’s whole body. He cries out, can’t help it, and Gabriel’s face lights up in triumph. He’s on his knees, fists ready to beat Crowley back down should he try to rise. He needs only the slightest excuse, his hunger for violence unmistakable but Crowley is in no fit state to attempt anything else. Gabriel has won, there can be no doubting it, but Crowley keeps counting. _Five. Six_. 

Gabriel considers him, waits for Crowley to hold his gaze and then reaches out with sadistic precision to press the heel of his hand right where Crowley’s ribs have broken. Pain, fierce and inescapable, flares white hot. Through it Crowley hears his own voice, desperate and feral, scream the next number inside his head. _Seven. Fucking seven_.

‘You were saying?’

Gabriel’s hair is wild about his face but his breathing is even, his face only slightly flushed. Subduing Crowley has been easy for him. And now he can take his time, wait for Crowley to beg for mercy he is sure won't be forthcoming. It's not hard to guess what Gabriel wants from him now, it's the truth anyway. Crowley is sorry, he's so damn sorry for every awful decision he's ever made that has led him to this point. 

When he says it aloud, he can barely hear his own voice.

‘What was that?’ Gabriel asks, leaning in closer, pressing down harder. A smile of sick satisfaction spreading across his face at Crowley’s inability to bite down on the pain. Crowley tries to speak but a sound escapes him instead, high and desperate, the pathetic whimper of a wounded animal caught in a trap it can’t possibly escape. He can feel tears, hot and awful, sliding down his face. And still, somehow he remembers to count. _Eight, nine_. 

‘I’m sorry, Gabriel. Please, I’m s-sorry.’

Gabriel’s smile widens.

‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be.’

Crowley sees every dark intention shine bright and sharp in those soulless eyes as Gabriel bears down on him. Closer and closer, sour breath in his face and weight on all the places it hurts the most. Crowley's mind begins flinging itself at the prison of his skull, beating itself senseless in an effort to escape the way his body cannot. His awareness is narrowing to taking the next breath when, cutting through the agony, Crowley hears the final number, the one he's been trying to reach, whispered in a voice that is not his own. A voice made of sweet poetry and undeserved kindness. _Ten_. 

And a tiny spark of hope springs to life in the darkness.

He's got one shot, one chance. Crowley waits until Gabriel's face is a few inches from his own, his smile the last thing Crowley sees before he smashes his forehead into the bridge of Gabriel's nose as hard as he possibly can. Gabriel lets out a mighty bellow, rocking back in shock, both hands covering his face as he rolls to the side and off Crowley, blood already visible through his fingers.

Crowley does not try to assess the damage he’s done. Adrenaline is his friend now and somehow he manages to make it to his feet, his body screaming at him as he staggers towards the door. As Crowley flings himself down the spiralling stairs, Gabriel’s wailing follows.

Aziraphale has no idea what he’s hoping to achieve, all he knows is that every time he tries to leave the shadow of the Tower his heart squeezes so tight he feels he might die. His promises mean nothing. He didn’t protect Crowley, he hasn’t been able to rewrite their ending and he is jealous. Darkly, madly, painfully jealous. Aziraphale wraps his arms around himself and sends a prayer directly up to the window where he is sure, a few minutes ago, he caught a glimpse of Crowley.

What are they doing now? Is Gabriel reaching for the man Aziraphale loves? Are his lips pressing loveless kisses to the places Aziraphale has so tenderly worshipped? What dark demands and desires does Gabriel’s heart hold? Aziraphale’s tormented mind fills with images, each more terrible than the last, until it’s all he can do to keep himself rooted to the spot and not go tearing up the winding staircase. He mustn’t. He can keep one promise at least. But he can’t leave. He must stay to bear witness, beseeching an indifferent God for guidance because surely, surely there must be another way, surely it is not written that he must lose Crowley when they have only just found each other.

Aziraphale has resolved to wait at the base of the Tower all night if necessary when he hears something. He is staring right at the doorway as Crowley bursts out of it. His dress is hanging off one shoulder, one arm is shielding his ribs. He’s not wearing shoes. Aziraphale takes in each detail separately, unable or unwilling to piece them together, until he sees the cuts, marks, bruises.

‘Crowley!’

Crowley looks up and halts as if the very act of being seen has drained him of his last bit of energy. Aziraphale recognises what is about to happen and runs towards him, reaching him just in time to catch him before he can fall. Crowley cries out sharply the moment he is touched and Aziraphale immediately tries to soften everything about himself, holding on as gently as he possibly can.

‘Darling, what happened? Are you hurt?’

It’s ridiculous even to ask, the answers so obvious that the questions themselves are insults. Aziraphale wants to take them back and apologise but Crowley is speaking, hissing through gritted teeth.

‘We have to go. Now, angel, move!’

It is a command that Aziraphale is all too willing to obey. He wishes he could sprout wings and fly Crowley to safety somewhere far, far away from here. He does the next best thing, half supporting, half carrying Crowley until they reach the familiar not-quite-safety of the elephant. He is aiming for the bed, meaning to lay Crowley down before making a proper assessment of his injuries, when Crowley starts to twist away from him. 

‘He knows, angel. He knows everything. He…he saw…’

Crowley sways on his feet, Aziraphale steadying him with one arm as Crowley whispers, ‘I couldn’t do it. I saw you and I…’

Crowley’s eyes fill with tears and Aziraphale experiences the heady dichotomy of realising that though he is elated Crowley has defied Gabriel for him, this action has led to the consequences Aziraphale can so clearly see before him. Crowley too appears to be realising exactly what he’s done, his eyes widening, his gaze darting around the room as if looking for an escape.

‘You’re safe,’ Aziraphale says because he wants it to be true, ‘You’re safe now.’

Crowley shoots him a look of devastating disbelief and then something wild floods his face.

‘We should leave,’ he says, ‘Go off together.’

His words are almost lost as he starts to cough, his body folding in on itself as he gasps for breath.

‘Crowley, what…?’ But Aziraphale is distracted from the proposition before him by the sudden startling flash of red on Crowley’s lips. ‘You’re bleeding.’

He reaches out wanting to wipe the blood away but Crowley makes a muted sound of protest before grabbing a handful of Aziraphale’s coat and holding on tight.

‘You and me,’ he says, ‘We could run away, doesn’t matter where.’ 

Crowley doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s coughing up blood. Whatever Gabriel did, the damage is likely worsening with every moment he’s standing having this conversation.

‘There’s blood, Crowley. You’re bleeding. I need to fetch a doctor.’

Aziraphale gently loosens Crowley’s grip on him and begins to shepherd him towards the bed once more. Crowley tries to stop him, tries to speak, but Aziraphale refuses to let him.

‘You need to rest,’ he says, keeping his voice as calm as he can.

‘Angel, please…’

Aziraphale tucks the blankets around him, like all he has to do to make everything better is keep Crowley warm.

‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ Aziraphale says, leaning down and kissing Crowley’s forehead, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, you won’t have time to miss me.’

Crowley’s hand tightens around his wrist but his grip is easily broken.

‘Angel…’

‘Won’t be long,’ Aziraphale says, forcing a smile on his face, keeping his tone light, meaning to reassure even as his fear tells him he’s wasted enough time already, ‘Don’t move, darling. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

In his haste Aziraphale rushes from the room without a backward glance, running like he’s never run before from the very moment the door shuts behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

‘What the hell happened?’

Beez’s tone is sharp enough to slice through arteries. Crowley is supposed to come up with some kind of answer but he hasn’t been able to speak a word since Aziraphale left. He’ll find his voice when Aziraphale returns. He’s coming back. He’ll definitely come back. He said so.

Dagon forces some bitter tasting liquid passed his lips. Crowley chokes on it and starts coughing. It hurts, fuck, it really fucking hurts.

‘What. The. Fuck. Happened?’

‘Beez…’ 

Dagon is silenced by the daggers in Beez’s eyes. The three of them are by no means alone. An assortment of the fallen have squeezed into the room and are now watching, silent and judgemental witnesses to Crowley’s failure. There’s quite a bit of curiosity and some barely restrained vindictive glee, precious little concern. Usually no one else is allowed inside the elephant but this is a main event, an error of staggering proportions, not to be missed. Crowley closes his eyes. Partly because he doesn’t want to look at any of them but mostly because the view of the open doorway, devoid of the one person who he wants beside him, is breaking the few whole bits still left inside him.

‘Beez, he’s here.’

Hastur’s voice. Low and conspiratorial.

‘Gabriel?’

‘Sandalphon.’

Crowley flinches as Dagon chooses that moment to lay her hand across his forehead. Is he burning up or freezing cold? He can’t tell.

‘Everyone out,’ snaps Beez. Crowley hears the sounds of shuffling feet and whispers leaving the room. Dagon stays where she is. Violation of a direct order is never tolerated which must mean that Dagon’s orders are different. The moment the door shuts Dagon begins to mutter a string of curses under her breath.

‘Fucking ridiculous. I’ve told them a hundred times. Never signed up for this, not a fucking doctor, never wanted to be.’

Crowley swallows, the taste of metal sharp on his tongue. Aziraphale has gone to find a doctor, a real one. He’s coming back. He is. He promised. Or did he? Crowley tries to remember exactly what was said but his mind keeps leaping back too far, to hands around his throat, to fury, to the slam of fists and a vindictive smile of victory.

Beez bursts back into the room a few minutes later in their customary graceless fashion. Crowley opens his eyes, looks past them but the only person standing behind Beez is Sandalphon who grimaces at him and flexes his meaty fingers in blatant threat.

‘You,’ says Beez, pointing at Crowley like they’re hoping their finger might turn itself into a gun, ‘Get up.’

‘Beez, I don’t think…’

‘Dagon, I swear to Satan…’ They move further into the room. ‘Crowley, you are in a fuck load of trouble. Get the fuck up.’

With Dagon’s assistance, Crowley manages to sit up. It’s torture but Beez doesn’t care, never has, never will, which makes it easier for Crowley to meet their death glare with a steely one of his own.

‘Fuck you,’ he says, ‘I’m leaving.’ 

Whatever Beez might have expected him to say, they clearly were not expecting that.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’m leaving.’

Beez is baring their teeth but Crowley doesn’t care. They don’t scare him. Not any more.

‘Oh, you’re leaving?’ Beez weighs every word with the utmost care. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with the writer, would it?’

Crowley can feel a bead of perspiration winding its way down the side of his face. It won’t be much longer, Aziraphale will be here any moment. They’ll find a way out of this, together.

‘He loves me.’

There is a moment’s stunned silence and then Beez does something truly terrifying, they start to laugh. It is quite possibly the worst sound Crowley has ever heard in his life, and he’s got quite a list. Dagon drops her gaze to the floor, shuddering, and Crowley is aware as he should have been from the start, that he is completely and utterly alone.

Beez’s laughter ends with startling abruptness as they kick the door behind them closed, shutting Sandalphon out. They then stare at Crowley hard as if trying to get their head around just how monumentally stupid he really is.

‘The boy ran off and left you and you call it love? I thought the problem was in your lungs but perhaps the doctor was wrong. Maybe it’s in your brain.’

Maintaining any sort of composure is clearly inhibiting Crowley’s ability to understand what’s being said to him. Either that or Beez isn’t making sense on purpose, just to fuck with him. Completely plausible.

‘Don’t tell me it’s come as a shock,’ says Beez, sneering at his obvious confusion, ‘Can’t catch your breath, can you?’

Crowley immediately becomes even more aware of his breathing and how much it hurts. He coughs, tries to stop, can’t.

‘Didn’t you wonder why you’ve been getting sicker and sicker? Why you never get any better?’

Crowley wants to leave, push his way past Beez and stop their lies from getting inside him but when he attempts to move it feels like he’s choking on air, like his chest is being crushed, like Gabriel is still on top of him.

‘Stop,’ he says though he’s not entirely sure if he’s talking to Beez or the pain. Doesn’t matter, neither one of them listens.

‘How long has it been since you’ve felt well? Can’t remember, can you?’ 

Crowley makes a little movement, like he’s trying to push Beez away but they ignore it, stepping towards him instead. 

‘You’re dying,’ they say.

In the ensuing silence, Dagon’s tiny sigh is a loud as a gunshot.

‘Liar,’ says Crowley.

_Fuck, please. Please be lying._

Beez’s lip curls.

‘Lying, am I? Dagon?’

Dagon lifts her head a fraction, glances at Crowley and then shakes her head. A strangled sound rises and dies at the back of Crowley’s throat.

‘You’re dying,’ Beez repeats, drawing out the word as if they like it, ‘So the only place you’re going is...’

Crowley throws aside the covers Aziraphale had placed so carefully over him. Dagon puts her hand out to help him stand or push him back down, he’s not sure which, but Crowley snarls at her. He’s going to leave, damn it. They can’t keep him here.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Leaving.’

‘Crowley…’

Dagon tries again to intervene. It hurts, everything fucking hurts and Crowley needs it to stop, he needs to get out.

‘Don’t fucking touch me. You...’ He rounds on Beez. ‘You signed my life away. You didn’t care what happened after, as long as you got your money. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. Fuck the Moulin Rouge. Aziraphale loves me, he _loves_ me, and he’s going to take me away from this life, away from all of you.’

‘And I’m sure you’d both enjoy the few days you have remaining to you,’ says Beez icily, ‘But there’s one small problem with your little plan. If Aziraphale is stupid enough to return to claim you, Gabriel has given orders to have him killed.’

The floor falls away from Crowley so fast he has to grasp the nearest piece of furniture to stay on his feet. His clumsiness knocks things to the floor, there’s the smash of glass and suddenly terror has a rose infused scent. _Aziraphale_. Crowley had always assumed it would be him who would pay the price for their affair, he’s never properly considered the lengths Gabriel might go to take revenge on both of them. What if Aziraphale is making his way back right now? How can Crowley warn him?

Crowley tries to turn in the direction of the door but his body is no longer responding. A creeping numbness is spreading though him. His head is starting to swim again, he can’t breathe deeply enough to clear it. Beez is watching him, waiting for the truth to sink in.

Oh fuck. He's dying. 

As soon as he thinks it, Crowley realises the lengths he’s gone to deny the truth. All this time he’s been looking up from inside his own grave and now Aziraphale will die alongside him, because of him. Across the room Beez stands as sympathetic as a statue. It is Dagon once again who takes hold of Crowley’s arm.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘You need to sit down.’ 

‘No,’ says Crowley though he has no strength left to fight her off, ‘I…’

What can he say? What can he do? He’s out of options. Out of time.

‘Satan only knows why Gabriel still wants you,’ snaps Beez, the moment Crowley has been helped back onto the bed, ‘Apparently breaking his nose is not enough to dissuade him that you’re going to be a good enough fuck to make the trouble you’ve caused worth his while. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed you after he’s had his fun. Frankly, I don’t care. All that’s required of you now is to make it through the next twenty four hours and the deed to the Moulin Rouge is safe. After that you’re not my fucking problem and you are free to drop dead at your earliest convenience.’

Speech complete, Beez turns on their heel and marches from the room, slamming the door so forcefully behind them that the whole room shakes. Or maybe only Crowley shakes. It seems his body is no longer making any attempt to hold itself together now that the severity of his condition has been spelled out to him. 

‘Don’t get yourself worked up,’ says Dagon.

Crowley coughs in response, blood spattering the blanket Dagon has just laid over him. She pulls a face but otherwise chooses not to comment.

‘He’s going to come for me.’

‘Gabriel’s got his nose to worry about, he won’t be bothering you tonight.’

‘Not Gabriel,’ Crowley wheezes. 

Dagon gives him a hard look, it could not be clearer that she has no intention of getting involved. Crowley has never had any particular affection for Dagon nor she for him and yet she’s all he’s got.

‘He’ll come for me and they’ll kill him.’

Dagon scowls.

‘He won’t come if you tell him not to.’

‘What?’

Dagon looks at him hard, her pity soured with disgust.

‘Tell him you don’t love him, that it was an act. He won't fight for you then.’

‘He won’t believe me.’

‘Make him,’ Dagon snarls bitterly, ‘You can act, can’t you? And you’re a liar just like the rest of us. Better the writer learns that while he can still escape with his life.’

It takes far longer than Aziraphale had hoped to find a doctor and a great deal of persuasion once found to get them to make a late night call to the Moulin Rouge. However, no amount of money or pleading can get the man to break into anything quicker than a brisk walk.

‘Really!’ the doctor exclaims, clutching his medical bag and puffing indignantly, ‘I don’t see why this can’t wait until morning.’

Aziraphale stops trying to justify the haste, holding back all he longs to say lest the doctor decide against following him. When the Moulin Rouge comes into view at last, Aziraphale is initially relieved to see a figure outside. Dagon has been waiting for them.

‘Is Crowley alright? Is he…?’

‘He’s fine.’

Dagon’s inscrutable expression gives Aziraphale no reliable indication of what awaits them inside.

‘We should go in,’ he says, attempting to move past her but as soon as he does she takes a step to the side to block him.

‘Just the doctor,’ she says, ‘Crowley gave me this for you. He’s resting now, leave him be.’

Dagon slams a folded note into Aziraphale’s hand and then turns on her heel.

‘Wait.’

She does not falter. Aziraphale looks down at the note in his hand. The writing is shaky but Aziraphale has seen the penmanship before, scrawled on scripts strewn over the floor of his room. 

_I’ll come to you tomorrow morning. 8 o’clock. I promise._

_Crowley_

Aziraphale turns the note over but there is nothing else, not even his name. He looks up but Dagon is already disappearing inside the building with the doctor in tow, even if he shouted they could easily pretend not to hear him.

_I’ll come to you tomorrow_.

But why not let Aziraphale come to him now? Aziraphale shivers, recalling the blood on Crowley’s lips, the struggle for breath, the desperate plea: _We should leave, go off together._

He’s done the right thing. Aziraphale tells himself this over and over again as he walks back to his lodgings. He fetched a doctor, he got Crowley the help he needed and now he is letting Crowley recover some strength. He is doing the right thing.

It’s late but Aziraphale already knows he won’t sleep. He looks around his room at all the things Crowley has touched. He has been wrapped in that bedsheet. He has knelt on that floor. He has typed words painfully slowly on Aziraphale’s typewriter, laughing as he misspells the things he wants them to do next. Crowley is everywhere and yet he is not here. The cold seeping in from that damnable window makes Aziraphale shiver. He did the right thing, so why does he feel like he’s made the biggest mistake of his life? 

Aziraphale unfolds Crowley’s note, runs his fingertip along the uneven words. Eight o’clock. A promise. He will be ready. It won’t take him long to pack. And once Crowley arrives, they will leave straight away. Nothing will stop them.


	15. Chapter 15

The first light of dawn creeps into the room, casting all it touches in a weak, haunting light. Aziraphale checks and rechecks the bags he’s packed, he checks and rechecks the time. As it passes seven o’clock, he starts to fret with more purpose. Should he perhaps wait outside? Or even start walking to the Moulin Rouge so that he meets Crowley halfway? Will Crowley have anything with him, will he have a plan of where to go and how? Should Aziraphale have devised a plan himself in all these empty hours he’s had to himself?

The only thing Aziraphale can think to do is take Crowley back home with him but whenever he gets close to imagining his family’s reaction his mind veers wildly away. Whatever challenges the future has in store, they’ll have each other. Everything will be easier once Crowley’s hand is in his.

The closer it gets to eight, the worse Aziraphale’s nerves become. What if Crowley doesn’t arrive? What if he is prevented from coming somehow? The spectre of Gabriel looms large and Aziraphale works himself into something of a frenzy, pacing up and down, Crowley’s note so creased and worn in his hand now that it’s barely legible.

At the first hint of a sound from the hallway Aziraphale is crossing the room. The door opens before he can reach it and there stands Crowley. Relief, intense and immediate, sweeps away any initial alarm at Crowley’s attire. Wearing a long black dress beneath a sharply fitted coat, Crowley has his hair pinned up and a lace veil casts a shadow over most of his face. Aziraphale can see bright painted lips contrasting with his ghostly pale skin. He does not look like someone about to go on the run.

‘My dear, are you alright? I’ve been so worried.’

As Aziraphale moves towards him, Crowley steps aside, draws away.

‘Aziraphale.’

The speaking of his full name strikes Aziraphale hard in the chest.

‘What is it?’ Aziraphale checks the corridor to see if Crowley has been followed. ‘What’s the matter?’

Crowley does not answer at once. He stands very still, barely inside the room. He’s wearing gloves, Aziraphale notices. For some reason the sight of those beautiful, familiar hands covered and hidden from him is more unnerving than the silence. Aziraphale tries to reach for one but Crowley, slowly, deliberately, moves out of reach.

‘Gabriel came to me last night after you left.’

Before Aziraphale can so much as exclaim, Crowley holds up a hand. Aziraphale can just about make out the shine of his eyes behind the veil but there is no reading them.

‘After our disagreement last night, Gabriel is prepared to change the terms of our contract. He’s made an offer that’s more than generous which I have accepted.’

Aziraphale hears the words, sees Crowley’s lips moving as he’s speaking them but he cannot make himself believe that what he’s heard is true.

‘I don’t understand, what are you saying? You’re staying with Gabriel? He hurt you, Crowley. He…’ 

‘As I did him,’ Crowley fires back, ‘Do you not think he felt betrayed by all I did with you?’

‘But…’ Aziraphale is floundering. This is so far from what he expected that he can’t find his footing, the very ground feels like it’s falling away from him. ‘No, this can’t be real, there must be something else. What about last night? You asked me to run away with you.’

Crowley tilts his head. 

‘You left,’ he says, ‘Without me.’

‘Crowley, I…’

'It's fine, I'm glad. I wanted a way out but it was the wrong choice. I do not intend to make the same mistake again. I choose Gabriel, Aziraphale. I choose him, not you.' 

‘That’s not true. It can’t be true.’ Aziraphale must keep talking, he must find the words that unlock whatever cage the real Crowley, _his_ Crowley, has been locked into. ‘Crowley, whatever he’s said to you, whatever threats he’s made, none of it matters. We can leave. I’ve packed, I’m ready. We can go.’

‘I can’t leave, I never could.’ Crowley’s voice has softened and Aziraphale cannot bear it. He sounds sincere, so utterly sure. ‘That’s the difference between you and I, you are free to leave any time you like but the Moulin Rouge is my home.’

Crowley seems so much more himself than he had the night before. Calm control and poise replacing all that wild pleading, that breathless panic.

Bring that Crowley back, Aziraphale thinks, immediately hating himself for even having the thought.

Crowley has a small black bag over his shoulder. He opens it now, draws something out.

‘Your fee,’ he says, ‘In full. As promised.’

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s gloved hand as he holds out the money. It’s enough for them to get back to England, to find somewhere cheap to live until Aziraphale can find some form of work. He has no trade to fall back on, no real contacts save his disapproving family, but he would stop at nothing, do absolutely anything if Crowley were there beside him.

‘Count it if you like,’ Crowley says, ‘I don’t expect you to trust me.’

There is no quaver to his voice at all. He is, as Aziraphale has seen every day for the last few weeks, a phenomenal performer. But now, here, in these rooms where they have shared so much, Crowley sounds like someone who has finally dropped the act. Aziraphale stares at the envelope of money, at the gloved hand that holds it.

‘I don’t want it.’

Crowley gives a minute sigh of impatience as if the whole interaction is beginning to bore him.

‘It’s yours,’ he says and tosses the money onto the bed, ‘Take it and go home.’

Aziraphale tries to say ‘not without you’ but the words lodge in his throat. He can’t believe that any of this is happening, that Crowley is turning away from him, that he is letting him go.

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale takes half a step towards him but nothing in Crowley’s demeanour invites him any closer. ‘I don’t understand. You love me, I know you love me.’

For a dreadful moment Aziraphale thinks that Crowley will simply roll his eyes and leave. He does turn in the direction of the door but then he stops. Aziraphale can see him in profile now, his impeccably styled hair, the curve of his ear, the sharp angles of his cheekbone, nose, chin. Aziraphale has touched them all, kissed them all.

‘I told you the first day we met,’ Crowley says, ‘I can’t love anyone. I tried, but I can’t.’

Crowley falters for the first time, a catch in his voice that he smooths over quickly as he adjusts his gloves, prepares to walk away. 

‘Go home, Aziraphale. The Moulin Rouge is no place for angels.’

Two minutes later and Crowley hasn’t made it far. Outside the lodging house, rain has started to fall, soaking the filthy cobbles, soaking Crowley too who makes no attempt to shield himself from it. The rain ruins his hair, pools at his feet, turns his grey coat black. He has been dosed with enough laudanum to numb most of his injuries but the sea-blue broken glass of Aziraphale’s devastation has speared him all the way through.

He keeps his head tilted upwards, welcoming the rain. Let it keep falling, let the flood come, let him drown here.

‘Crowley!’

Aziraphale’s cry echoes down the indifferent Parisian street. He is following and somehow Crowley must find the will to keep moving.

‘Crowley, wait! Please!’

He can hear running footsteps behind him. Aziraphale will catch him easily and if he does, he’ll spin him round, and he’ll see, he’ll know. But that won't be allowed to happen. There’s someone else here to make sure of it.

Hastur is standing by the cab that brought them both here, the black horse at the front already tossing its head in agitation. Crowley has always hated horses, hates Hastur too for how much he is enjoying the whole situation, his expression indecently gleeful at this confirmation of yet more failure. Aziraphale was not supposed to have followed him, Crowley was meant to have done a good enough job breaking his heart to ensure that he left Paris without a fuss.

It’s useless trying to stand in Hastur’s way, Crowley has lost every bit of leverage he ever had, but still he tries.

‘Get in,’ Hastur snarls pushing Crowley towards the cab, ‘Time to do this my way.’

Aziraphale calls his name one last time, a desperate cry of purest misery and then, through the closed carriage door, Crowley hears him attempt to plead with Hastur.

‘I just want to talk to him, that’s all. I need him to listen…’

Crowley screws his eyes tight shut, too cowardly to bear witness to what he has done. His fault, it’s all his fault, and he will never, ever be forgiven. 

It’s quick, at least. Hastur is climbing up beside him within seconds, slamming the door behind him. The sound makes Crowley’s eyes spring open. Through the window he sees Aziraphale lying on the rain soaked ground. He is not moving.

‘Relax, serpent,’ Hastur says, half laughing, ‘I didn’t kill the bastard, wouldn’t want to deprive Gabriel of the pleasure. Might have done for his spirit though.’

He laughs properly then, the sound of it grating down Crowley’s spine.

‘Soft that one,’ Hastur says, tapping the roof of the cab to tell the driver to drive the horse onwards, ‘What the fuck were you thinking?’

Crowley refuses to grant Hastur the satisfaction of responding. Veils have a myriad of uses when you’re disintegrating from the inside out. He keeps his eyes on Aziraphale for as long as he can, hoping to see him get to his feet but Aziraphale remains where he is, motionless on the merciless stone. And the rain does not stop falling. 

‘Get him out of those wet clothes.’

‘Pass me that towel.’

‘Get another blanket, quick!’ 

Hands push and pull at him, something heavy is draped over his shoulders but Aziraphale keeps shivering. Other hands smooth back his hair. Someone presses a kiss to his temple, tells him not to worry now, close his eyes, have a little rest.

When he wakes, it is only Anathema left in the room. She is sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed, watching him.

‘What happened?’

Awareness comes back to Aziraphale in stages. He’s in bed in the middle of the day on play’s opening night. They should be working through their last rehearsal but they’re not. He should be on a train speeding away, holding tight to Crowley’s hand, but he’s not.

Crowley said he loved him.

Then he said he did not.

‘Aziraphale?’

Anathema is spearing him with that unnerving gaze of hers. How much does she already know?

Aziraphale swallows down the lump in his throat, pulls the blankets closer to him.

‘He doesn’t love me.’

It’s nowhere near a complete answer but Aziraphale finds he can’t see past it. There is no future without Crowley.

‘Who doesn’t love you?’ Anathema asks, ‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale flinches away from the sound of his name.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Anathema, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Aziraphale tries to glare back but he cannot muster sufficient energy. The area around his eye where Hastur’s fist connected throbs in time with his pulse. There’s a corresponding sore spot low on his belly. He feels pathetic, and entitled to be so. He’s had his heart broken, lost the future he was dreaming of and been beaten up all before breakfast. Having buried enough pain and misery for one lifetime, this time he’s going to let the waves close over his head.

‘Leave me alone.’

Anathema unfolds her limbs, gets off the bed and comes to stand right beside him. Aziraphale closes his eyes, blocking her out as best he can.

‘Don’t think for one minute you’re going to get away with not talking to me, Aziraphale. There are many things I don’t know but I know love. Do you hear me? I have seen what you and Crowley have tried to keep hidden. Do you know how many people I have seen around the Moulin Rouge, flashing their cash, believing they’re in love with the Serpent of Eden? And do you know how many have looked past the persona and seen the real Crowley? One, Aziraphale. Just one.’

Aziraphale groans. He can’t help it. He doesn’t need Anathema or anyone else to tell him that he’s in love. He’s known that since the first night, since the first touch of their hands, since Crowley danced with him slowly to a fast song, since two fingers placed gently on his lips. It wasn’t real then and it isn’t real now. He’s been played for a fool this whole time.

Anathema yanks the blankets down away from his face. Aziraphale raises a hand to replace them. He wants to be alone. Now and forever.

‘Whatever has happened, it isn’t what it seems. Crowley loves you, Aziraphale. He loves you. Trust me, he’s not that good of an actor.’

But he is, they’ve both seen proof of that. 

‘Go away.’

Aziraphale has to say it again, has to muster the last of his strength and roar it as loud as he can before Anathema finally gives up, leaving him to his misery. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of POV switching in this chapter. 
> 
> And also, Anathema becomes the MVP (I really love her).
> 
> Also, I feel this is a good time to reiterate that the tags do not lie. Happiness lies beyond the pain ❤.

‘Well,’ says Tracy, ‘That was…’

She trails off, seemingly unwilling to spell out exactly how much of a fiasco their last rehearsal had been. Without their writer and their lead, it's an achievement they'd made it through the whole thing at all. 

‘Sorry,’ Newt says again, looking like he’d very much like to disappear through the floorboards. He had perhaps not been the wisest choice for Crowley’s replacement but no one had been about to argue with Beez who had taken Aziraphale’s directing role with the attitude of one who would happily execute the first person to fudge a line.

‘You did the best you could,’ Tracy reassures, ‘But we need Crowley back.’

She looks expectantly at Anathema who feels the pressure of being their de facto leader weigh more heavily than it ever has before. They are so close, close enough to see this dream of theirs made real, yet Anathema cannot deny the ominous shifting she feels taking place. Aziraphale’s aura had been a storm cloud and Anathema is afraid of what she will find when she goes to seek Crowley. 

‘We may not be able to fix this,’ she says, ‘But we’re going to try.’

Raven rolls his shoulders, relaxing minutely, as if he was preparing to storm off if she had said anything to undermine the gravity of their current situation. None of them have been paid yet, the money conditional on their performances. They need to pay rent, they need to eat. But they are bohemians. And their priorities have not changed. Anathema looks at her friends, all of whom have followed her this far based on faith alone.

‘This play is very special to us and we’ve worked so hard, but it will mean nothing if we compromise on our ideals to see it brought to life.’

It’s a lot to ask of anyone and Anathema sees trepidation in more than one pair of eyes, but she sees courage too, their bohemian spirit undaunted by challenge and strife.

‘To freedom,’ says Tracy, bangles clinking as she reaches for Anathema’s hand.

‘Beauty,’ says Newt, an absurdly unnecessary blush creeping up his neck as he peeks at Anathema through dark lashes.

‘Truth,’ adds Raven, punching the word into the air.

‘And love,’ finishes Shadwell gruffly in the tone of one who would rather have spoken up earlier.

‘Above all, love,’ says Anathema, smiling for what feels like the first time all day, ‘So, let me find our courtesan and I’m going to leave you all in charge of getting Aziraphale back here.’

‘But…’ Newt starts to stammer.

‘I don’t care what Beelzebub has decreed,’ Anathema says fiercely, ‘Aziraphale is one of us and this is his play, he’s going to be here when that curtain rises.’

She meets all of their eyes in turn. There is no resistance.

‘Right, we’ve not got much time. See you back here.’

Crowley has been alone since Hastur delivered him back to the elephant. He’s not sure how long it’s been, long enough for the laudanum to wear off, for all the broken edges inside him to make fresh and terrible cuts. The door he’s staring at might be locked or it may not be, it no longer matters, he’s a prisoner inside his own body.

He’s drifting in a state of semi-consciousness when raised voices rouse him. He’s on the floor, broken shards of mirror glass surrounding him. He remembers reaching for something, remembers the pain flaring hot and fierce and awful, doesn’t remember much after.

Crowley tries to push himself up, gritting his teeth to make it to a sitting position as the conversation on the other side of the door grows louder. He is surprised to recognise one of the speakers as Anathema. The other has a voice that’s low and threatening, smooth like silk pulled across a blade. Sandalphon, Gabriel’s enforcer, Crowley’s prison guard. It’s only a matter of time before Anathema is forced to admit defeat. Ten minutes later, however, and Crowley is forced to conclude that he has vastly underestimated Anathema’s persistence.

‘What’s going on?’

Dagon has arrived. A spiky exchange follows which rises and falls in volume. Crowley stops listening as a high pitched whine starts up inside his head. He heard a dog make such a sound once, a beaten, mangy, starving thing that would fall silent whenever anyone approached. When the door opens, Crowley clenches his jaw and the noise stops.

‘We had to do the entire final rehearsal without him.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Dagon says, ‘I’m well aware.’

‘It’s only a few hours until curtain, I just want some reassurance that he’s…’

Dagon has entered the room, her eyes finding Crowley and then sweeping quickly away again. Anathema is still berating her when she falls abruptly silent. Her look of abject horror tells Crowley all he needs to know. There is a moment’s pause before Dagon is shoved unceremoniously to the side as Anathema practically throws herself across the room to reach him.

‘Crowley, Crowley…’

She says his name gently like she’s trying to wake him. Crowley tries to speak but Anathema barely pauses, firing questions at him, her voice quiet and conspiratorial but Dagon is listening and Crowley doesn’t have enough presence of mind to provide more than one inconceivable lie.

‘Fine,’ he says, the word no longer making sense at all, ‘M’fine.’

‘He’s fine.’

Dagon manages to sound even less convincing than Crowley which is impressive in its way.

‘He is _not_ fine!’ Anathema says, whipping her head round to glare at Dagon.

It is then that Crowley notices that Dagon is holding a glass bottle, precisely the kind of glass bottle that might contain the only thing capable of fooling people into believing that he really is fine, temporarily at least. Crowley stares at it, trying to guess what will happen if he asks for it, if he begs, if he cries.

‘Give that to me,’ Anathema commands, holding out her hand. Dagon, who has never willingly submitted to any order not given by Beelzebub, blinks once then hands over the bottle.

Crowley almost coughs the stuff back up again but Anathema helps him swallow it down. She moves to sit next to him after that. Crowley resists the temptation to tip sideways, at least he thinks he does before realising that he is pressed against Anathema’s shoulder and that she is in fact holding him up.

‘I think he needs a moment,’ Anathema says coldly.

Dagon looks down at the pair of them. She has her orders, that much is clear, but Anathema is coiled like a spring and Dagon looks reluctant to face the full heat of her rage. She’s unlikely to have managed to get an overabundance of rest over the last twenty four hours either.

‘Someone needs to fetch his costume.' 

‘Too kind,’ Anathema returns with the kind of smile that could sour milk.

The moment Dagon has shut the door behind her again, Anathema finds Crowley’s hand and squeezes it tight.

‘Oh Crowley,’ she says, ‘What the hell did they do to you?’ 

The rain has not let up all day. Drops race each other down the rattling window pane, the draft bringing in the damp and the chill as the shadows lengthen. Every few minutes Aziraphale wipes his eyes with the blanket wrapped around him. He hasn’t moved since Anathema left. He does not know how he will ever summon the strength to do what he needs to do, what Crowley bid him do. He must leave. Go home. Back to London with nothing to show for the time he spent here but a savagely broken heart.

They were right, his family, his friends, all of them. Aziraphale can see them now, shaking their heads, exchanging those looks that burn, laughing about him the moment his back is turned. He’ll weather it all, hope that he passes beneath notice quickly. Then he’ll do whatever he’s told to do. Take the job his father finds for him, marry the person whose connections his mother has carefully researched, have children if that’s what is required of him. Keep his head down, heart covered, his opinions to himself. He’ll never make the mistake of allowing himself to be seen ever again. But first, he must survive.

Aziraphale buries his face deeper into his thin pillow. He wants to give voice to the acid biting pain inside him, howl it into the night. He wants to scream Crowley’s name until everything in this awful, twisted, terrible city shatters and breaks to the sound of it. He wants Crowley to hear him. He wants Crowley to come back, to take back everything he'd said and be his again. 

A knock at the door makes Aziraphale hiccup.

‘May we come in, dear?’

Aziraphale pulls the blanket up to his chin. Tracy’s voice is so kind, so gentle, but he does not think he can stand to be mothered right now. He’s already sent Anathema away, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.

The knock sounds again.

‘Is it locked?’

‘I don’t know, I thought it best to give the boy a chance to let us in himself.’

‘Don’t have time for that!’

The door is not locked though apparently Shadwell does not bother to check before he launches himself at it. He ends up hurtling through the room, almost pitching himself straight through the window. The rest of the group follow him inside at a far more sedate pace.

‘Ah,’ says Tracy, eyeing the sorry state of Aziraphale curled up in bed, ‘Newt, be a love and find us some water. I think hydration is a good starting point. Shadwell, are you alright? Yes? Have a gander in that case there and see if you can find some clean clothes for our boy.’

Aziraphale makes a muffled sound of protest that has no effect on any of the bohemians now filling his room.

‘We don’t have much time, dear,’ says Tracy, coming to sit on the edge of his mattress, ‘And you may wish to freshen up a bit.’

Before Aziraphale can tighten his hold, she has whipped the blanket off him and is pushing him with little chivvying motions.

‘Leave me alone.’

Tracy tuts.

‘None of that, you’ve been alone all day and fat lot of good it’s done you. Come on, on your feet. Beelzebub will have our heads if half the cast is late for opening night.’

Aziraphale stares at her.

‘I can’t go back there.’

‘Course you can,’ says Tracy, ‘You’re not supposed to but that’s hardly been enough to stop any of us in the past. Besides, Anathema was really quite insistent.’

Anathema. Of course. The tiny flare of hope Aziraphale had been kindling inside his chest stutters and dies.

‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘He doesn’t want to see me. He said…he…’

He can’t push the words past the misery balled in his throat.

‘Please leave,’ he says, pleading, ‘Just go.’

Tracy looks down at him sympathetically, heaves a deep sigh.

‘It’s your choice,’ she says, ‘We’ll be leaving with or without you in precisely ten minutes, can’t be late as I said. Just remember what you came here for, dear, and take it from me, it’ll be a lot worse going home with a broken heart if you’ve also got a pocket full of what ifs.’

The bohemians smuggle Aziraphale into the theatre through the back. He has Raven’s coat on, one of Newt’s scarves wrapped round his face and a hat borrowed from Shadwell pulled down low over his eyes. It is, all things considered, a ridiculously transparent disguise but if any of the fallen notice they choose not to raise the alarm and Aziraphale is soon safely sequestered in the wings away from the hustle and bustle of the dressing rooms.

‘Don’t you go attracting attention,’ Tracy says, the others having already rushed off to get into costume, ‘It’s your play and you deserve to be here to see it but you’ll be in a whole heap of trouble if Beez or that goon Hastur spots you so stay put, alright?’

She gives his arm a quick squeeze before hurrying away.

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. If he stays where he is, he will hear the action on stage but he will not see any of it. It’s not enough.

His familiarity with the stage means he knows who will be at which post and where the deserted spots can be found. He also knows where to find the best, unimpeded view of the stage. He will be able to watch his work come to life for a real audience. He will able to see Crowley one last time, he can say goodbye.

The curtain is down miring the empty stage in gloom, the staging and the props nothing but shadows. On the other side, there is a murmuring that grows louder. The audience are removing their coats, taking their seats, calling out to friends. Aziraphale tries to resist the temptation to find somewhere he can peer out and see how many seats remain empty. He had not realised how nervous he would feel. It’s not even technically his play any more, he’s been cast out, but apparently the message has not reached the butterflies in his stomach.

As he waits Aziraphale spins the ring he always wears around his little finger, tries not to recall the memory of Crowley kissing it, both of them cocooned under the same blanket. The noise from the audience grows, a swelling tide. Aziraphale checks his pocket watch, worries at his lip with his teeth. He’ll watch the first scene and then he’ll leave, go straight home and sleep. He’ll get the first train out in the morning. He won’t look back. 

A hush falls backstage at the Moulin Rouge the moment Crowley walks in. He's very late but he's hardly going to waste time giving this lot excuses.

All eyes follow him as he passes. Someone starts to whisper, someone else joins in, then the sharp twist of a bitten off laugh. The fallen can never get enough of grinding their own into the dirt, Crowley knows all too well how long they’ve been waiting for him to slip from his pedestal. Any one of them would gladly crawl over his body to take his place.

‘Do it,’ Crowley wants to say, ‘Take this from me. Take it all.’

But it’s too late now, far too late. His name on the contract, his end in sight. 

When Crowley reaches his dressing room, he is startled by the sight of his own ghost staring back at him. Just his reflection but Crowley continues to look into his own shocked, exhausted eyes, unable to break his own gaze. Maybe he’s as much of a fool as they all believe him to be. Thinking someone like him was allowed to fall in love, that he might have a value beyond the price someone was willing to pay for him. No wonder they were laughing. He would laugh too, if it wouldn’t break him in two.

There’s a note on his dressing his table, his name written in a firm, neat hand. Crowley reaches for it knowing already who it will be from.

_You will come to me when the curtain falls._

_You will beg for my forgiveness._

_You will submit to me. Entirely._

_This is not a negotiation._

_I own you._

_Gabriel_

Crowley places the note back down where he found it, feels nothing.

‘Crowley?’

Anathema has poked her head round the wall that separates him from everyone else. Crowley is not sure how much time has passed since she left him in the elephant but Anathema is in full costume and from this he gathers that he should be too.

‘Shit, I thought…’ Anathema begins before waving away her own words, ‘Come on, let me help.’

Pull a corset tight around broken ribs and it’s going to hurt but Crowley's mind has become separated from the pain. Anathema seems to feel it more than he does, a stream of apologies falling from her lips as she helps him to dress. Crowley tells her it’s fine, he’ll be fine, like it’s the only word he remembers how to say.

The headdress goes on last and once that’s done, they both look at each other in the mirror.

‘You look beautiful,’ Anathema says.

Crowley tries a smile which makes her wince. Excellent. 

‘Look, I’ve got to make sure everyone else is sorted but I’ll be back right before curtain.’

She kisses him on the cheek then hurries away. Crowley feels the warmth of her lips fade slowly from his skin. His reflection in the mirror continues to haunt him. He is beautiful. Even now.

If he was not, would he be dead already? Or would he be free?


	17. Chapter 17

Aziraphale may be heavily biased but the audience’s reaction confirms his firm conviction that the opening scene is a masterpiece. His initial ideas have been shaped by Beelzebub’s insistence that the fallen take centre stage, making the action both sensuous and sinful, playful and passionate, something Aziraphale freely admits he would not have been capable of conceiving alone.

As the music swells, Dagon’s phenomenal effort with the costumes makes up for any slight lapses in the choreography. Raven, dressed in the ostentatious attire of the Baron, stands at the edge of the action, a commanding presence even while motionless. The show is for him, and for the audience whose attention darts across the stage, unsure where to settle. It’s too much for some of them, too foreign, too new, but their discomfort lasts only until the dancers break formation and Crowley makes his entrance.

There is only one place to look now. There might as well only be one person on stage. Aziraphale tries to turn his head to gauge the reaction of the audience but the desperate pull of his heart to Crowley is too powerful to ignore. In full costume, in utter command of the stage, Crowley is as Aziraphale first saw him, terrifyingly beautiful, intimidatingly confident, untouchable.

Only Aziraphale _has_ touched him. He has helped Crowley out of that very costume, brushed out his hair, wiped away the make-up and kissed the skin beneath.

Memories fine as cobwebs, heavy as lead, make it hard for Aziraphale to take in what he is seeing but he begins to notice details slowly. There is no smile on those perfectly painted lips. And is he imagining the fragility he thinks he sees as Crowley moves? Crowley does not look over at the Baron as he is supposed to, his gaze is fixed straight outwards. Aziraphale remembers then that Gabriel will be in attendance. He’ll have claimed his front row seat. Crowley might be locking eyes with him even now. The thought makes Aziraphale’s insides freeze solid. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t have come. Aziraphale is stepping back, ready to turn, ready to run, when Crowley falters.

It’s a small thing – a stagger, the lifting of one hand to his chest, a slight parting of his lips – but Aziraphale reacts on instinct, bracing to move, ready to rush right out on stage to catch Crowley should he fall. But Crowley recovers, lowers his hand, refocuses and the next second it is as if nothing has happened.

The scene continues. The courtesan meets the Baron. A deal is struck, a marriage arranged. The set changes, the engagement party is due to begin.

Aziraphale tells himself he will leave after this scene. After Anathema’s sitar player meets the courtesan. After she convinces him that love is worth fighting for. After this scene, after the next, and then Aziraphale realises that the curtain will soon be falling, marking the interval. Costumes will be changed, the set rearranged once more for the wedding that will never be. It's the most foolish time to attempt to go backstage, when everyone else will be there, when anyone could see him. 

Aziraphale does not remember making a decision, all he knows is that minutes before the first act’s final scene concludes, he is counting the precise number of steps to Crowley’s dressing room. As always it is the tidiest of any of the backstage areas, though some of the makeup is strewn haphazardly on the dressing table. As Aziraphale begins to straighten it, he notices the note lying there. 

Who else would write to Crowley on such expensive paper? Who else would have writing that seems threatening by its very neatness? If it’s a love letter, Aziraphale will die. He thinks this quite calmly and then another thought, gentler but even harder to acknowledge. It _should_ be a love letter. Crowley deserves love. Even if it is from someone Aziraphale finds it hard to imagine capable of such generosity of spirit.

It is not a love letter.

Aziraphale is crushing the note in his fist before he realises what he’s doing. His furious pulse, pounding in his heads, masks the rumbling approach of footsteps. A burst of laughter makes him turn. What is he doing? Why is he here? There’s nowhere for him to escape to now, there’s only one entrance. Before long Crowley will be walking through it and Aziraphale has absolutely no idea what he is going to say. 

As soon as the curtain falls, Anathema is there beside him, hovering as if she is not sure he can walk unassisted. Crowley is not sure either but he’s doing it anyway. Half of the play done, the rest towering ahead of him like a mountain he hasn’t a hope of climbing. But he will. He just has to keep his body and mind on two different planes of existence for as long as possible. And then he can break, then he can fall.

Anathema is saying something but Crowley has no idea how long she’s been speaking. Engaging with her is going to interfere with his plan to have a completely silent, precisely timed breakdown in the privacy of his dressing room. He reckons he has ten minutes, no more, if he wants to have enough time to get into the next costume and be ready for curtain. And if he doesn’t want to be ready, it doesn’t matter, never has.

‘Crowley…’ Anathema’s touch is light on his arm but Crowley still flinches. ‘Tell me what I can do.’

‘Nothing,’ Crowley says, ‘M’fine.’

He might as well have told Anathema the truth for how despairing she looks.

‘There must be something I can…’ Anathema bites back her words, shakes her head. ‘I’ll get myself sorted and then I’ll come back to help you, okay?’

Crowley must have indicated his assent somehow for Anathema is hurrying away. He watches her go, envious of her speed, the ease of her movements, the health she carries so lightly, entirely unaware of how heavy the loss of it will be one day. He’s preoccupied as he enters his dressing room, two steps inside before he registers that he is not alone.

‘Crowley.’

Crowley blinks but Aziraphale is still there, standing right in front of him. Euphoric relief that he’s come back, that he’s here, temporarily blots out the terrible reality that this is absolutely the last place Aziraphale should be.

When Aziraphale raises his hand experience tells Crowley he is about to be hit, instinct making him brace for impact, but he does not try to shield his face or move away. Aziraphale has every right to hurt him and if that’s what he came for Crowley is not about to deny him his revenge.

‘I shouldn’t have looked,’ Aziraphale says, ‘But I did.’

Crowley registers the note Aziraphale is holding, realises his assumption is wrong, the pain is coming from a different direction. He's suddenly perversely grateful for the corset binding him. It may be the only thing holding him together. 

‘You shouldn’t be here. You need to go.’

Crowley cannot meet those blue-blue eyes, can’t stand the wobble of Aziraphale’s chin.

‘I will,’ Aziraphale says, voice as soft as feathers, ‘If you tell me one more time. Tell me you’ve chosen him. Tell me you love him, Crowley. Tell me it’s true and I’ll go.’

‘It’s true.’

Crowley says it fast, coughs it up and out.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Aziraphale says, ‘I’ve read it.’

The note from Gabriel is still in Aziraphale’s hand. He’s crushing it but it’s not only anger Crowley sees in him. Behind it lies concern and misery with the tiniest sliver of hope. It’s that hope Crowley needs to aim for, the thing he needs to crush. 

‘Doesn’t matter what you believe, I don’t want you here.’

Crowley is ready to deliver the final blow when a sound from the corridor outside makes him bite down on his venomous words. Someone is coming. There isn’t anywhere for Aziraphale to hide so Crowley makes his body a barrier, stepping closer so that he is between his angel and whoever is about to discover them. He’s barely aware of Aziraphale coming to meet him, his arms rising, until they are chest to chest, Crowley back in Aziraphale’s arms, exactly where he belongs.

‘No one there,’ Aziraphale assures quietly, ‘You’re safe.’

Crowley should push him away, deliver the lines that will sever what binds them forever. He shouldn’t lean in closer, shouldn’t bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck and breathe in the sunshine and strong tea smell of him but the relief of being held is overwhelming, irresistible. 

‘My dearest,’ Aziraphale whispers, ‘Please tell me the truth.’

Crowley lets his eyes close. His chest is burning. He should sit, better yet lie down, but if he does he’ll never get up again.

Aziraphale continues to hold him, bracing as Crowley leans against him more heavily. Crowley has spectacularly failed to convince him with lies. The truth then, as requested.

‘Gabriel has given orders to have you killed.’

Aziraphale startles a little but then his arms move tighter around Crowley, loosening again when he winces.

‘This is what he’s threatened you with?’

Crowley hears the outrage in Aziraphale’s tight tone, feels the strength in the arms around him. For one wild, beautiful moment Crowley can believe that Gabriel is no match for this kind of power. But the world where love can stop a bullet does not exist. 

It’s impossible but Crowley has to do it. He lets Aziraphale go, pushes himself away but he can’t stop himself from reaching up, fighting against the pain that flares in his ribs so that he can touch Aziraphale’s face one more time.

‘You can’t save me, angel, you never could.’

‘Crowley…’

Crowley moves his hand, two fingers pressing against soft lips. Aziraphale’s eyes fill with tears even as he kisses them.

‘I can still save you though,’ Crowley says, ‘If you let me.’ 

‘Darling,’ Aziraphale takes hold of Crowley’s hands, presses them again between his own, holds them against his chest, ‘We can run, right now.’

‘Can’t run.’

‘But…’

‘Show must go on,’ Crowley says, thinking of Anathema, of Dagon, the whole cast and backstage crew who need the play to finish so they can survive another day. If he fails to appear for the second act, Gabriel will tear the Moulin Rouge apart looking for him.

‘Please angel, please go.’

Tears begin to spill down Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks and it’s unbearable. He’s not going to leave, not without a promise that Crowley already knows he cannot keep.

'There's no chance for us at all if you're killed here, angel. Go and one day, if I can, I'll come to you. Wherever you are, I'll find you.' 

Aziraphale kisses him, tasting of salt and warmth and hope. They stare into each other's eyes for just a moment and then, at last, he leaves. 

Crowley doesn’t move, he's waiting to hear the alarm go up but there’s nothing. Aziraphale is safe. For now.

When Anathema comes to check on him, Crowley has made a passable attempt at getting into his wedding attire which is unfortunate because he’s also coughing. And there is now blood, vivid and unmistakable on the ivory sleeves.

Anathema closes her eyes and takes a series of long, deep breaths. Rubbing her temples has not eased the tension there, nor has the drink Tracy had pressed upon her a few minutes ago “for the nerves”.

Nerves Anathema can deal with, this is something else.

She’s been an idiot, she can see that now, willingly believing Crowley every time he brushed off her concern, happily assuming that he was exhausted from rehearsals and the pressure to be whatever Gabriel wanted him to be, not to mention whatever he got up to with Aziraphale. But she cannot deny the truth now and neither can Crowley.

He dismisses her suggestion of delaying the curtain, telling her between coughing fits that there is no point calling a doctor. Anathema doesn’t like it but she does not argue. Neither of them mention the Duke by name but Anathema has seen Gabriel sitting in the front row, his arms tightly crossed as he glowered at the stage, his face shadowed with bruises. Crowley’s work, no doubt. Anathema is grimly satisfied to have proof that the injuries were not entirely one sided but as she helps Crowley redo his makeup, choosing not to mention the perspiration at his temples, it is hard not to think about what awaits him once the play finishes.

And then there’s Aziraphale. It had been Anathema’s idea to send Tracy and the others to fetch him. She’d known it was a risk but she had been thinking more of the risk involved in interfering in matters of the heart, if Anathema had seriously thought there would be a risk to Aziraphale’s life she would never have suggested it. They have all seen Sandalphon stalking around backstage, not even bothering to hide the fact that he's armed and quite clearly looking for someone in particular. No wonder Crowley had tried to get Aziraphale to stay away.

Right now though, it is not Aziraphale she is most concerned about as she helps Crowley stand.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Anathema asks.

Crowley nods, doesn’t speak, accepts her arm so that they can leave the dressing rooms together.

On stage the Baron is admiring the extravagant decorations in honour of his wedding. In three minutes Crowley is meant to join him, look around at the superficial trappings of the life he will be bound to and the audience will see how empty it all seems to him. Only Crowley can barely catch his breath. He’s got one hand on the wall, holding him up. Anathema is holding the other one gently, her fingers twined with his.

‘I’ll make sure Aziraphale leaves Paris.’

It’s all she can do, the only promise she can make. Crowley glances at her and then away again. When he speaks, it’s in a choked whisper.

‘I never thanked you.’

‘For what?’

‘For bringing him to me, for helping us meet.’

Anathema grimaces.

‘Things might have been a whole lot easier for you if I hadn’t.’

‘I know,’ Crowley says, still looking out at the stage, waiting for his cue, ‘Worth it though. Had something beautiful.’

There is a long shadow in Crowley’s words. Anathema resists the temptation to shiver.

‘There’ll be more beautiful things to come,’ she says but the words are dry and dusty in her mouth. She thinks of Gabriel, his severe profile and his over white teeth. And she looks at Crowley, at the bruises that make up can’t quite cover, at the pink stains they couldn’t remove from his dress, at the way his chest rises and falls, shallow breaths coming far too fast. And the shadow grows.

When it’s time for Crowley to walk out on stage, Anathema finds it incredibly difficult to let go of his hand. She doubts anyone else can tell how badly Crowley is suffering and if his voice falters more than once while delivering his lines, it only enhances the script. He’s broken hearted, he’s run out of hope, and that’s how he sounds. And if there are a few people at the back of the theatre struggling to hear him, well, too bad. Anathema follows him with her eyes, her heart pounding like she really is his lover and they really are to be separated forever.

When Raven approaches him, grabbing Crowley by the arm to lead him to the altar where the courtesan and the Baron are to be wed, Anathema experiences a strange and terrifying vision. She is old enough, the world more than cruel enough, that she is intimately familiar with Death. And there he stands once more, holding onto Crowley, devouring him with those depthless, unfathomable eyes.

‘No,’ Anathema says out loud, shouting with more feeling than she ever mustered in rehearsal, ‘No!’

She has come in far too early, halfway through Raven’s line. He gives her the kind of fierce look which is more him than the Baron but it works either way. Death, for the moment at least, takes a step back.

This is where they were supposed to change the ending but there was no time to write a new one and no writer even if there had been and so the cast have decided, almost unanimously, to proceed with the play as Aziraphale wrote it.

Let Gabriel satisfy himself with getting the ending he wants in reality, the play is not his story.


	18. Chapter 18

From his secret spot in the wings Aziraphale watches as the play ends his way, surprised and more than a little touched that the cast have defied Gabriel so openly. It does not bode well for whatever awaits Crowley once the curtain descends but this is merely additional motivation for Aziraphale to change his fate by any means possible. 

There’s no way Aziraphale can leave now, not now that he knows for sure that Crowley loves him, not while there’s even the slightest chance that they could find a way through this. He never promised Crowley he would leave, though Aziraphale is aware this is a matter of semantics, but it is in both their interests that he remains hidden for as long as possible. 

Hiding, however, is only one strategy and it will only serve him for so long. It is for this reason that Aziraphale is holding a sword, the only weapon he had been able to find backstage. It’s a cheaply made thing, far too light to do any real damage, but Aziraphale is unable to let it go. Even a real blade would be unlikely to do him much good if it comes down to combat. Fighting has never been one of his strengths. 

It won’t be Gabriel who comes for him, of course. Not he of the impeccable suits, commanding tone and threatening notes. Oh no, it wouldn’t do for the Duke to get their hands dirty. Even so, Aziraphale pictures raising his sword to him, slashing it across his cheek, leaving a mark there for all to see. It’s an unbecoming side to him but Aziraphale would rather darken his own soul than let any further harm come to Crowley. If Gabriel's threats are the only thing keeping them apart then Aziraphale will brave whatever comes his way. 

Aziraphale grips the useless sword and tries to think through his very limited options. Crowley has proved beyond all doubt that he is willing to walk through fire for him and in return Aziraphale has repeatedly managed to make things worse. The last thing he wants to do is make another mistake and bring hell down on Crowley once again. Perhaps if he can get to Crowley the moment the play is finished, there might be a chance to sneak away before anyone realises they're gone. Getting Crowley out of the Moulin Rouge and somewhere safe is the priority, they can figure the rest out later.

The practicalities, however, are hard to focus on when it becomes increasingly clear that things are not as they should be on stage. Crowley begins to falter and drop lines, Anathema and Raven improvising to fill the empty pauses. As Raven's voice booms louder and louder to compensate, Anathema stays so close to Crowley that she must be partially obscuring the view of him for a sizeable portion of the audience. As the Baron delivers his final lines despairing at his ruined wedding plans, Aziraphale sees Anathema gesture frantically to Tracy before she loops her arm around Crowley's waist. 

The fallen are urged on stage for their final dance number well before their cue, most of them managing to look like this is all part of the plan but a few glancing around in open confusion as they take their places. They block Aziraphale’s view of Crowley and when it is time for Anathema and Crowley to move to the front of the stage, to deliver their last lines in support of each other and true love, neither one of them appears.

It is left to a very awkward Newt to stumble through an approximation of the play’s closing lines and as the curtain falls, it’s a full thirty seconds before anyone in the audience thinks to applaud.

Aziraphale doesn’t care about play’s reception, however. He’s barely aware of the fuss he’s causing as he barges through the cast, fighting his way to the back of the stage. Beelzebub is shrieking insults and questions at fallen and bohemian alike but Aziraphale does not spare anyone a single glance. The only thing that matters is getting to Crowley, the prop sword coming in handy for pushing aside anyone not quick enough to scramble out of his way. 

It’s Anathema he spots first. She is bent over Crowley, one of her hands on his chest, the other cradling the back of his head. She looks every bit the lover and Aziraphale feels an irrational stab of jealousy slice through him before he gets his first good look at Crowley, every other feeling receding in the wake of instant, ice-cold terror. 

Anathema looks up, somehow divining his presence without him needing to say a word.

‘He needs you.’

Aziraphale sinks to his knees, taking over from Anathema. Carefully, ever so gently, he cradles Crowley in his arms. Crowley looks up at him, the corner of his mouth quirking into a half smile even as he shudders.

‘There now,’ says Aziraphale, smiling back, pushing that wild terror down as far as it will go, ‘You gave me quite a scare, my dear.’

Crowley tries to speak but doesn’t manage anything that Aziraphale can discern. When he breathes in, the sound scrapes along the edges of Aziraphale’s spine. He has never heard anything so terrifying. Anathema, kneeling beside them, stifles a sob. Her head is bowed, her hands together, as if she’s praying, as if there’s nothing else she can do.

‘Has a doctor been called?’ Aziraphale asks her, keeping his voice level, calm. Anathema meets his eyes and Aziraphale hates what he sees there. He won’t look at her again.

‘No need to worry,’ he says to Crowley, ‘The doctor’s on his way, you’re going to be just fine.’

Crowley shakes his head ever so slightly but Aziraphale refuses to acknowledge it. There’s blood and breathlessness, and Crowley is looking up at him like he’s trying to memorise every line of his face but any inference Aziraphale might draw from all this is just his overactive imagination jumping to the worst possible conclusion. He's not losing Crowley now, he can't. 

‘You’ve done so well,’ he says, holding Crowley tighter, ‘Just keep being brave for me, darling. You’ll feel better soon.’

There’s an outbreak of shouting going around them but Aziraphale keeps his eyes on Crowley, afraid that if he so much as turns his head Crowley might slip away.

‘I’m sorry.’

Crowley’s words are precious breath itself and Aziraphale tries to hush him but Crowley persists.

‘Messed up, angel. Forgive me?’

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s forehead, his nose, nuzzles against his cheek. There's nothing to forgive. He would love Crowley if he'd been told nothing but lies. He'd love him if he was the Devil himself. He will always, always love him. 

Aziraphale is about to try and articulate these thoughts when he becomes aware of movement and a sense of exposure as their watchful audience draws back.

‘Ah,’ says a low, cold voice, ‘I see.’

The Duke has arrived.

Gabriel surveys the scene, the bruising beneath his eyes giving his glare extra weight. Beyond the curtain, a full house of paying customers are tutting and grumbling as they don their coats and hats. After the play’s travesty of an ending, with no curtain call to boot, he’ll be surprised if most of them don’t insist upon a refund. This alone is enough to make him want to grind the parasitic creatures before him into the dust at his feet but it is only one of the factors fuelling his ire. 

Crouched on the ground, almost within kicking distance, is the writer. Clinging to Crowley like he might drown if he lets go, pathetic in his worn clothes with his ridiculous cloud of unkempt pale hair. The man hasn’t even got the decency to look up.

As for Crowley, his orders had been quite clear. And yet again, he has been disobeyed. At this point it’s far from unexpected but Gabriel finds that deep down beyond the rage he is strangely pleased. Crowley’s defiance has awoken something in him. It’s a challenge, Gabriel sees now, nothing short of a battle in fact. Crowley might have scraped through the first round but there can only be one winner, and Gabriel has no intention of being graceful about it. He has plans, such elaborate plans. He’s been obsessing over visions of submission for weeks but now that Crowley has shown just how hard he’s willing to fight does Gabriel realise how satisfying it will be when the Serpent of Eden is tamed at last.

‘I gave very clear orders.’ His voice carries easily, the entire cast hanging on his every word. ‘And I will see them obeyed.’

He clicks his fingers and Sandalphon emerges from the shadows. His pistol is already in hand, the raising of which causes a flurry of activity amongst the fallen. Some of them scream, others attempt to flee, but from the writer, nothing. He continues to smooth back Crowley’s hair as if they are alone, as if they have all the time in the world.

Gabriel feels a stab of pure rage. The writer is not engaging with his imminent assassination the way he had imagined. He’s supposed to be pleading, weeping, that kind of thing. The more undignified the better. No reaction at all is not just disappointing, it’s a fucking insult. Gabriel is not accustomed to being ignored. Before he can rectify the situation, however, the mouthy one, Anathema, is up on her feet. She can clearly see that Sandalphon is holding a gun and yet she positions herself between him and the writer as if the weapon is no more than a piece of stage trickery.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demands of him. As if she has any right to address him at all. 

Gabriel brushes some dust from the lapel of his suit jacket, deliberately avoiding looking directly at her.

‘Reclaiming my property,’ he says, ‘I suggest you stand aside or I will be forced to deal with you as well.' 

Anathema does not move. Her hands are on her hips. She stares Gabriel down, paying no mind to Sandalphon or his gun. Gabriel feels a mounting pressure in his jaw as his teeth grind together. This whole situation has the potential to get very messy indeed. Before he can decide what to do next, however, another voice interrupts. 

‘You’re making a mistake.’

Gabriel had not noticed Beelzebub’s approach but he is glad to see them. Finally, someone reasonable. If there’s anyone who appreciates what he’s trying to achieve here, it’s Beelzebub.

‘A mistake,’ says Gabriel, clapping his hands together, ‘Exactly. Now move.’

‘Not her,’ Beelzebub says coolly, ‘You.’

Gabriel meets their eyes and sees nothing but steel. God, they are terrifying.

‘This is no way to do business, Duke.’

There is warning in their tone but Gabriel refuses to heed it. He’s had just about enough of this whole affair.

‘If you are suggesting that we amend the terms of our deal, it’s too late for that and you know it. Business is my area of expertise and I am through with dealing with the likes of you. That man has his hands on _my property_.’

Gabriel spits the last words, sees the writer flinch at last. He curls protectively over Crowley as if he can make himself more than flesh and blood. He’s listening then, willing to die cowering rather than face him like a man. Well, so be it.

‘The terms of our contract have been fulfilled,’ Beelzebub says, interrupting Gabriel’s murderous thoughts once more, ‘Crowley is yours to take.’

Anathema opens her mouth to protest but Beelzebub only has to glance in her direction to halt her protests.

‘Bid him come to me,’ says Gabriel.

Beelzebub’s lips part in a sneering approximation of a smile.

‘You have no power over me. If you want him, get him yourself.’

But Gabriel’s path to Crowley has been further blocked. The bohemians have moved to join their leader, the whole ragtag lot of them, gaudy and ridiculous in their costumes. The boy – Frog? Toad? – stoops to pick something up from the floor. When he stands he’s holding a wooden sword, a toy.

‘You’ll have to go through us,’ he says, his voice shaking.

‘That’s right,’ says Anathema as she reaches for the boy’s empty hand, clasps it tight, as the others link arms.

Beelzebub, though clearly not a part of this last stand, remains close by looking irritatingly amused. If it wasn’t for the fact that the writer continues to touch what is not his to touch, Gabriel would find their reaction the most galling of all. He had thought they at least understood each other.

Gabriel looks at the sorry tableau of humanity before them. Their lives are nothing to him. He’d be doing the world a favour if he destroyed them all. He is, however, prepared to extend one last offer of mercy.

‘There need only be one death this evening.' He straightens his sleeves, centring himself, ‘The rest of you have until the count of three. Choose wisely. One.’

No one moves. Not a twitch.

‘Two.’

Sandalphon's pistol is aimed straight at Anathema and still the witch is defiant to the last. Gabriel has the final number on his tongue, the taste sweet, but before he can break the silence, someone else does.

‘THE GREATEST THING YOU’LL EVER LEARN!’

The voice booms out, furious and mighty.

‘IS JUST TO LOVE AND BE LOVED IN RETURN!’

Gabriel looks up, yells out a warning but it’s too late. The sandbag hits Sandalphon square on the head. He remains standing for a moment, his eyes sliding out of focus, and then he falls to his knees, toppling sideways to land with a nasty crunch.

The gun he had been holding skitters across the stage. Gabriel lunges towards it but someone else gets their first, Beelzebub stopping the pistol with one oversized boot. Everyone watches as they crouch down, fingers closing around the weapon before they rise slowly, threat emanating from them in waves.

Gabriel swallows, this was definitely not how things were supposed to go. He fights to keep his hands from rising in surrender.

‘Let’s not do anything hasty,’ he says.

Beelzebub quirks the pistol in their hand, expression unreadable.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Right then,’ Gabriel says, unable to take his eyes off the gun or the person holding it, ‘All I want is what is mine.’

Beelzebub’s eyes are black as night.

‘Sure about that? Think you might want to check the expiry date on that property of yours, Duke,’ they say, tilting their head in Crowley’s direction, ‘No hard feelings, eh? After all, it's just business.' 

Gabriel looks over to where the writer is hunched over Crowley, bent low as if he's listening to some whispered confession. A great and terrible sense of injustice is beginning to tear through the Duke but Beez still has the gun trained on him, leaving him powerless, a spectator alongside everyone else, as a force stronger than anything Gabriel could have prepared for ends the story for him. 

The battle raging inside Crowley’s body eclipses any awareness he might have had of the conflict between Gabriel and the others on his behalf. He’s vaguely aware of the risk to Aziraphale but it’s muted, everything taking a backseat to the fact he’s choking on air. The effort of breathing is exhausting him beyond anything he’s ever experienced. He wants to fight but it’s easier, so much easier to let his eyes close and drift on the warm current of Aziraphale’s voice.

‘As soon as you’re a little bit better, we’ll leave. We’ll go to London. I’ve got friends there who know people in medicine. We’ll find you a really good doctor and I’ll make sure you get the very best care. The _best_ , Crowley.’

Crowley imagines hands poking him, bloodletting, all those prolonged, invasive treatments that are worse than the symptoms. He wants Aziraphale to talk about something else but he hasn’t got the strength or breath to make such a request. Luckily, Aziraphale does not linger on the difficulties of their situation for long.

‘As soon as you're better we'll leave the city. We’ll find a place by the sea, somewhere quiet. We’ll have a garden we can plant full of flowers. I’ll find a job, a trade, anything. And I'll learn how to bake bread, make jam. You can tell me all your favourite things and I'll find a way to bring them to you.' 

Aziraphale’s voice trembles. He pauses, sniffs, but the warmth in his voice does not fade.

‘It’ll be such a beautiful life, my dear. I’ll take such good care of you.’

Aziraphale kisses him then, soft and feather light, the kind of kiss Crowley has lost himself in many times. No one has ever kissed him like this. No one has ever treated him with this much kindness, this much tenderness, this much love.

Heaven must be like this, Crowley thinks. A beautiful place where there is an angel who will love you this well all of the time.

Crowley will not be going to heaven. It’s been a long time since he has harboured any doubt on this point. The fallen don’t go to heaven, even if the priests and the married and the rich who pay for them do. It’s their fault for doing the tempting, so he’s been told. Their fault for not simply giving up and dying quietly in an alley somewhere and selling themselves instead. With that kind of reasoning, Crowley has never found the idea of heaven sufficiently compelling to spend any time worrying about being barred from entry. Until now.

Angels belong in heaven. Angels who pretend they're not crying while they kiss their lover, who try to take away any fear by weaving dream-like stories of a life they'll never get to live, are given places of honour. Wings, halos, the whole lot. 

Which means that Crowley will never see Aziraphale again.

This realisation hits him like a kick to the gut but almost immediately Crowley’s certainty that they are about to be eternally separated dissolves. Rising from some part of him, the same deep well that has kept him going every single time things have seemed bleak and hopeless and unendurable, comes a punching, fearsome, gloriously optimistic thought.

_Not yet_ , this thought declares and Crowley believes it. He believes it with every fibre of his being. The universe is not going to treat him like this, it is _not_ going to take him from his angel’s arms so soon. 

The theatre is not brightly lit but when Crowley forces his eyes open they burn. It takes a while for him to focus on Aziraphale’s face, his soft curls, his pink cheeks streaked with tears, his smile wobbling but still there. 

‘Darling,’ he says, smoothing Crowley’s hair back, ‘My dearest.’

Crowley is going to speak, he’s going to force his body to do as it’s told one last time before he lets the pain sweep him away. 

‘Not…going…to die,’ he says, as definitively as someone unable to breathe can. 

The shock that flashes quickly across Aziraphale’s face changes quickly to something closer to pride.

‘Good, I was rather hoping you wouldn’t.’

‘Might…pass out…though.’

Aziraphale’s smile slips a little more.

‘I wish you’d stay,’ he whispers, ‘But I’ll be here, when you wake.’ 

‘Angel…’

Crowley tries to pull in enough air. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants Aziraphale to know but he’s not going to manage it. Aziraphale’s eyes are full of pain as he tries to read Crowley’s thoughts, tries to make it so that Crowley doesn’t have to speak at all. But he has to, has to find a way to save them both.

‘You have to…make them…believe.’

‘What? Crowley, darling, I don’t understand.’

Aziraphale is still speaking but the words start to echo and blur. Crowley tries to fight against it but there’s a weight pulling at him now, taking him down, the darkness closing over his head so fast it’s frightening.

Down and down he goes, down to where it’s black and cold.

Down to where there is no light or love at all. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump.

_Brighton, 1904_

Anathema steps out onto the street, umbrella held high. The rain has been her constant companion since arriving in England. It’s tempting to curse it, to glare up at the grey ceiling of clouds and attempt to burn a hole through to the sun that must still be up there somewhere, indifferent to the world below, but Anathema has found that accepting such inconveniences is a wiser use of her powers.

She is glad, at least, to have left the capital. London had been, in a word, unpleasant. Anathema had passed through it as no more than an observer and come to the rapid conclusion that she would not be returning any time soon.

Brighton has a much more appealing aura. There’s a softness to the salty air, a quirkiness to the people she passes, that eases some of the tension Anathema has been carrying since she left France. This visit of hers weighs heavily on her and she’s taken longer than strictly necessary to make it this far, accommodating the need for more rest and solitude than she usually requires.

She could have had company and she’d been sorely tempted. The cards, however, had been definitive each time she’d consulted them, even when she’d borrowed Tracy’s deck, and as Anathema nears the end of her quest she is glad to have heeded them. It was the right choice to travel alone.

It’s been four years since she left the Moulin Rouge, since her carefully orchestrated plan to find a writer had brought Aziraphale into her orbit. Since a play and a plan, and a love story that eclipsed it all.

Since an opening night tragedy that had broken every whole heart to bear witness.

Anathema can still hear Aziraphale’s broken sobs, still see him lifting Crowley in his arms, refusing to let anyone else near. He’d left before any of them had even begun to process what had happened, and no one had seen him again. There had been no funeral, no goodbye. Not everyone had understood, not everyone had forgiven. And Gabriel had certainly not forgotten being cheated out of an irreplaceable bride.

There have been times when Anathema has had ample cause to regret the part she played in the whole drama, but whenever the guilt and the self-recrimination threaten to overwhelm her all she needs to do is listen for the voice that never fails to whisper to her if she allows herself to sink deep enough into silence: _Worth it though. Had something beautiful_.

Yes, there had been pain and heartbreak and grief. But there had also been beauty, truth and love. Anathema will never be able to regret bringing the world more of any of those, for however short a time.

She has some trouble navigating the narrow seaside streets. The sea itself is another shade of grey, holding limited appeal when water continues to pour down in sheets from the sky. It must be beautiful when the sun shines though. Anathema can see how it would be, can well imagine why someone might choose to leave the smog dense city behind and settle here, where the sky is larger and the rush of the waves over the stony beach is a constant reminder to stop, listen, let go.

The bookshop she has come all this way to find is tucked away just off the main high street. There’s a bakery a few shops down which Anathema enters first. Partly because a gift is never a bad idea when you’re going to meet an old friend but mostly to give herself a little more time to prepare for what she is about to do. Pastries acquired, Anathema stands in the doorway watching the ongoing deluge.

‘Don’t blame you for hesitating,’ the baker says, chuckling, ‘I’d say you were welcome to stay until it passes but that could take weeks.’

He laughs heartily at his own joke while Anathema manages no more than a thin smile. Without raising her umbrella, she steps out into the rain.

Aziraphale is in the back room of his shop when he hears the tinkling ring of the bell above the front door. It’s absolutely tipping it down and he’s had precious few customers all day. In truth he’s been rather enjoying the quiet, though his takings for the week are going to make for grim viewing. He’s spent most of the day sorting through a recent delivery, though reading the first few chapters of each newly acquired tome probably isn’t as efficient a use of his time as finding space for them on the shelves. Still, no one’s around to judge and his literary knowledge has already earned him quite the reputation in the community.

‘One moment!’ he calls out, closing the book he most certainly would have liked to continue reading. With any luck it’ll be a quick enquiry rather than one of those endless browsers who ends up walking out without making a single purchase. Perhaps he should bring the book with him for some discrete reading behind the till. Aziraphale gives the cover a last longing look before getting reluctantly to his feet.

The shop has been his for almost a year, as good as his anyway. There is an owner, though they seldom make an appearance, and Aziraphale is left to his own devices more or less. There has even been a suggestion that the ownership might be transferred at some point though Aziraphale knows better than to get his hopes up too high. Permanence, as he well knows, is merely an illusion.

His customer has their back to him. They are standing just inside the door, rain from their coat dripping copiously onto the mat he has placed there for just such a purpose. Their attention has been snagged by the woodcut he’d placed up on the wall. The miniature windmill, the sails of which turn at the slightest brush of a finger, rarely draws the eye of anyone but himself. That is should have another admirer sends a warm current through him and Aziraphale finds he is suddenly quite pleased to have been disturbed.

‘Exquisite craftsmanship, isn’t it?’ he says, ‘The moment I saw it, I had to have it.’

‘A reminder.’

The woman's accent is strangely familiar. Aziraphale is already primed to recognise the speaker but when she turns the shock still punches the breath from his lungs. He staggers backwards a step, reaching for the counter to steady himself.

The past is rushing up at him, a wave of memories he has worked diligently to keep safely contained overwhelming him; glitter falling from the ceiling, silk and poetry, kisses in the night, blood on ivory sleeves.

Anathema is watching him through her round glasses with those eyes that see just beyond the reaches of the known world. Her clothes are more expensive, cleaner, her hair drawn into a more conventional style but otherwise she is dauntingly unchanged.

‘You remember me then?’ she asks with the brief flash of a smile.

‘I…yes, I…’

Aziraphale’s thoughts are spinning too fast for him to hold any of them in focus. He feels as if he has woken somewhere different, passed out and returned to a world where everything he had been counting on has crumbled away.

He’s distantly aware that he’s not handling this very well. Politeness dictates that he press down on his shock and greet Anathema like the old friend she is, ask how she is and answer the same question in return. They’re supposed to swap stories and fill each other in on what has befallen them in the intervening years since their last parting. That’s what people do, that’s what Anathema is doubtless expecting, but Aziraphale cannot move, he cannot speak. He’s frozen in place, frozen in time. He’s being rude and he can’t seem to do a thing about it.

Fortunately Anathema does not require strict adherence to the usual social protocol.

‘Tea?’ she suggests, ‘I brought treats.’

Some minutes later and Aziraphale comes back to himself to find that he in the back room once more, settled on the battered sofa with a teacup balanced carefully on the arm. Anathema has removed her coat and is sitting at the tiny table, her hand resting beside the pile of books Aziraphale had been working his way through. While she sips her tea, studying the titles on the book spines, giving him some time to recover, Aziraphale glances around, sweeping the room for anything that might betray him.

All that is visible on first glance is his usual clutter, evidence of the life of someone who lives too much in books. There’s a pair of recently acquired dark glasses atop a pile of papers but Aziraphale can always claim they are his own if questioned. He’s lucky that he demanded a hairband sweep a few days before, they would have been far more difficult to explain away.

His tea is a touch too hot still but he takes a sip, glad of the burn down his throat.

‘You must excuse me,’ he says, finding his voice at last, ‘I wasn’t expecting…’

‘My fault,’ Anathema says, fixing him with those keenly perceptive eyes once more, ‘I should have sent a note in advance, given you a choice. If you prefer that I leave you only need to say.’

She speaks the truth, Aziraphale can tell. One word and she’d be gone, never to return. And what a waste that would be, what a shame. She’s found him now, the damage is done.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he says, meaning it. There are many questions he could ask, many things he wishes to know but he starts simple. ‘How have you been, my dear?’

At another time Anathema’s anecdotes would have been fascinating but as she tells tales of travels throughout Europe, of adventures and affairs, Aziraphale cannot stop thinking of the last time they were in the same room. He still visits the Moulin Rouge in his sleep. They are wonderful dreams. Mostly.

Anathema is no longer talking, Aziraphale is not sure how long ago she stopped. The sound of her cup meeting its saucer is very loud in the silence.

‘I expect you wish to know how I found you.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says with more emphasis than intended. _Too late, too late_ , his heart intones, but it would be wise to find out where he went wrong.

Anathema brushes something off her long, dark green skirt, taking her time before she answers.

‘I didn’t think you’d appreciate being tracked down but I thought it might be useful, one day, to know where you were. It wasn’t easy but I have my ways, it pays to have friends in low places. I lost track of you when you left London though. Then a few months ago I got word about this place.’

She lifts her eyes to his, holds his gaze.

‘I didn’t want to disturb you without good reason. I would have made contact eventually but when I saw this, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.’

Anathema reaches into the pocket of her coat which is draped over the chair behind her and pulls out an envelope. She holds it in her lap, hands folded over it, tension running through her that was not present before.

‘I know you might not want to talk about what happened,’ she says in a rush, ‘But I need you to know that I think about Crowley. I miss him, loved him too, in my own way.’

She smiles, sniffs, her eyes brighter than they were a moment ago. Before Aziraphale can hope to push any words past the burning lump in his throat, Anathema is sitting up straighter, her emotions in check once more.

‘Here,’ she says, ‘This is what I came to show you.’

Aziraphale takes the proffered envelope, trying to subdue the urge to rip it in half and throw it as far from him as possible. His fingers shake as he removes the delicate paper inside.

It’s a cutting from a newspaper, the ink smudged in places where it has been handled. The name at the top of the article jumps out straight away, Aziraphale’s heart punching in his chest at the sight of it. For several long seconds this is all he can see. Just a name, he tells himself sternly, just words. He masters himself and begins to read but even after scanning the text a second time he can hardly dare to believe that it might be true.

‘Gabriel’s dead,’ Anathema confirms. There is not a sliver of doubt or regret in her expression.

Aziraphale tries to let the news sink in. He should be feeling all manner of things but instead there is only a growing lightness, a bright sense of warmth as if the sun has finally broken through the heavy clouds.

‘Murdered, mostly likely,’ Anathema continues, with cool detachment, ‘Though of course they wouldn’t print such a thing. Involved in all sorts, our Duke. Kept tabs on him too, of course. Just in case.’

Aziraphale stares down at the obituary again. There is no likeness but Aziraphale does not need one. He remembers Gabriel’s face all too well. Aziraphale runs his fingers over the print, lightly, not enough to leave any kind of mark.

‘May I keep this?’ he asks.

‘It's yours,' says Anathema, 'Got my own copy, was thinking of having it framed.' 

They drink the rest of their tea in silence. Anathema gets up and finds plates for the pastries. They eat and they drink and Gabriel remains dead. 

Deep down inside him, Aziraphale is starting to realise what this means. He’d been so afraid that Anathema’s arrival meant another ending. There have been so many of those, so much packing up and leaving, so many comforts that couldn’t be fully enjoyed, so many long nights of fear. Aziraphale starts to shake as he is flooded by the most wonderful feeling of hope.

‘Aziraphale? Are you alright?’

‘You must excuse me,’ he says, brushing away a few stray crumbs from where they have fallen on his lap, ‘This is rather a lot to process. I think perhaps I need to go home.’

‘Of course.’

Anathema stands at once, the perfect guest. She is already pulling on her coat when she says, ‘I’ll be in Brighton for the next week or so if you wanted to have dinner some time.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says, though he isn’t paying all that much attention to her any more, ‘Dinner. Did you say tomorrow?’

‘If you like,’ says Anathema, a smile in her voice, ‘I’ll meet you here, shall I?’

‘Yes, yes, fine.’

‘It was really good to see you again, Aziraphale.’

‘You too,’ Aziraphale says, giving her his full attention once more, ‘And thank you, Anathema. Thank you ever so much.’

Aziraphale waits until Anathema has left, watching from the bookshop window until she is out of sight. Then he waits a few minutes more, just to be sure.

When he can wait no more he tears from the shop, almost forgetting to lock up in his hurry to get out, get home, excitement making light work of the journey, joy giving him wings.


	20. Chapter 20

‘Ms Crowley! Ms Crowley!’

Fuck’s sake.

From his nest of blankets on the sofa, Crowley very reluctantly cracks open one eye and glares at the living room window where he is sure to see those responsible for his premature awakening. Any moment now.

One very familiar face pops up above the window sill right on cue, followed by two more each wearing identical grins. Pepper calls his name again and raps smartly on the glass, as if there’s any chance he hasn’t heard her, while Adam waves at him. Brian is on Adam’s right, his cheeks full of whatever treats his mother packed him off with before booting him out of the house that morning. Wensleydale will be somewhere nearby, hanging back so that he’s closest to the front gate, pretending he’s not frightened but ready to flee all the same. Sensible boy that one.

Crowley scowls at the others, making no attempt to hide his irritation at their disturbance. They know perfectly well the rules of engagement. He pays them well for it too, if stories of bad deeds, French cursing lessons and increasingly elaborate cakes count as payment. Though Crowley has seen Aziraphale slip them coins too, pulling them out of their ears and laughing delightedly at his own amateurish slight of hand. Clearly they’ve been overcompensated if they can’t follow basic instructions.

‘I told you,’ he says, closing his eyes again, ‘To wake me when he was coming home.’

‘But he is!’ Adam, Pepper and Brian intone together.

‘We saw him!’

‘Just now.’

‘Down the lane.’

Crowley opens both eyes now, checks all three faces for any trace of a lie. The trio stare back at him, all dirty faced, gap toothed innocence. They’re either telling the truth or he’s taught them far too well.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Just gone three,’ replies Pepper smartly, reading the clock inside the room through the window. Despite the pressing need to act on the information that Aziraphale is on his way home three hours early, Crowley pauses to feel a surge of pride. Pepper didn’t know how to tell the time at all before they met.

‘He’s never come home at three before,’ Adam points out.

‘Do you think something’s wrong?’ Pepper asks, even more helpfully. 

Crowley sits up. After all, the whole point of his alarm system is so ensure that he is not caught napping in the middle of the day.

‘Get out of here, you lot,’ he says, flinging the blankets from him. The cold is hateful but Crowley orders his rebellious body not to betray him by shivering. The kids disperse, their shouts and giggles fading as Crowley tries to decide what to prioritise.

His aim over the last few months has been to ensure that Aziraphale comes home to a tidy home, a hot meal and a healthy Crowley. The first two have been relatively easy to achieve and if Crowley has not been entirely forthcoming about how much sleep he requires to ensure the last, well, as long as he bribes the neighbourhood kids well enough Aziraphale need never be any the wiser.

It’s not lying, not exactly. Crowley has been feeling far better than is typical for this time of year. Winters are hard, and this one has been no exception, but he’s only got really bad once since October and now they’re within touching distance of spring and he feels, if not good, then at the very least fine. Truly fine. The problem is that fine is not a state that Aziraphale feels comfortable with when it comes to Crowley. And when Aziraphale starts to worry, lots of very pleasurable and, in Crowley’s opinion, very damn necessary things go out the window. Having endured entire seasons when Aziraphale would not even risk kissing him let alone anything else, Crowley is in no hurry to repeat the experience. 

He gets it though, that’s the thing. His breath is a borrowed thing and each winter they are both reminded that he’s probably not meant to stay in the land of the living. Aziraphale’s overprotectiveness, his insistence that Crowley follow some new health regimen, the tracking down of increasingly bizarre remedies, they’re all part of the fight to defy his fate.

And then there’s the other threat, the one that’s even harder to talk about, because what if the Duke is still looking? What if he hasn’t given up? The threat to Aziraphale’s life is one that Crowley finds much, much harder to live with than any risk to his own, a spectre that follows them wherever they go.

They rarely talk about Paris, though Aziraphale has been known to give the occasional poetry recital when he's imbibed enough alcohol and is feeling particularly nostalgic. Crowley barely remembers the journey to escape the Moulin Rouge nor does he have many solid memories of the first few months in London. He’d spent more time asleep than awake back then, all his energy going into taking the next breath. Aziraphale had kept him alive, kept them both going through sheer force of will, never giving up even as his money ran out, as doors slammed in his face and his family turned their backs, as the smoke and the damp undid any tentative progress any treatment could make.

They had talked about leaving London but it was only when a doctor began to forcefully insist on admitting Crowley to a sanatorium that Aziraphale had decided that the city was no longer safe for them. For the next two years they’d moved through various towns, following whatever work Aziraphale could find, drifting around like free spirits, like ghosts. For Crowley the lack of permanence had not been too much of an issue. Aziraphale was his home and as long as they were together, he didn’t much mind what he had to endure. Every time he woke safe and warm with Aziraphale’s strong arms around him, Crowley knew himself to have been blessed a thousand times over.

As for Aziraphale, he worked and worried and never once blamed Crowley for dragging him down into a life that barely resembled the one he should have been living. He was ever willing to spend his last coin to keep Crowley smiling, his soft kindness never hardening into bitterness. Still, he was not immune to the difficulties. Each time a job was lost, each time they got scared or had to move on, each time the leaves started to turn and fall, Aziraphale’s smile faltered, his silences growing longer, his fear cutting deeper.

And then they had reached Brighton where the air was different; where no one cared that Crowley wore tight trousers and flowing shirts, spent too long on his hair and painted his lips; where they had neighbours who gave them seeds to plant in their garden; where there was a treasure trove of a bookshop that needed rescuing from ruin. Where they had made more good memories than bad. Where they had both silently started to hope that they might be able to stay.

Crowley draws his hair into a loose plait rather than bother with brushing it all out. He has five minutes at most, no time to make it look like he’s done anything remotely productive. The blankets have been put away at least, the living room no longer resembling an animal's den. Moving through to the kitchen, Crowley is already running through the ingredients he knows they have. It’s too early to start on dinner but if he arranges them on the counter, it’ll make it look like he’s been giving the matter serious thought. He’s crouching to access the thin cupboard where they store their vegetables when a realisation he’s been too distracted to acknowledge hits him hard.

If Aziraphale is on his way home hours earlier than expected then that means something has happened. It’s not much of a leap to assume that something has gone wrong. Something going wrong means packed bags and train tickets and slipping away by the pale grey light of dawn without saying goodbye. It means no more pruning roses, no more kids lying all over the front room spreading crumbs everywhere and pleading for one more story, no more walking arm in arm along the windswept beach with the most wonderful person on Earth, no more lazy Sundays with Crowley finding increasingly creative ways to tempt Aziraphale into staying in bed.

Crowley stands slowly, lifts a bowl from the counter, weighs it in his hands, resists the urge to throw it violently against the wall.

Maybe this time he should go alone, do the decent thing and allow Aziraphale his freedom. It’s not the first time he’s considered it, though the idea hollows him out every time it crosses his mind. The one and only time Crowley had suggested it out loud, Aziraphale had burst into tears and made Crowley promise never to leave. But that was before the bookshop.

If Aziraphale was created for any vocation, it is the one he has stumbled upon now. The bookshop already seems like an extension of him and Crowley doesn’t want to know what losing it will do to the bright, happy, contented angel Aziraphale has become. It wouldn’t be fair to make him give it all up.

Crowley wipes his eyes roughly with the sleeve of the jumper he’s borrowed from Aziraphale’s wardrobe. Aziraphale will be home any moment, he’s got to keep it together. Plenty of time to fall apart afterwards.

Aziraphale tries and fails three times before he manages to get his key in the lock. He’s hot and bothered in his many layers and out of breath from his brisk pace. Tearing his scarf from around his neck, he can’t shake his coat off fast enough.

‘Crowley?’

He moves through the narrow hallway, listening out for any sign of where Crowley might be.

‘Where are you, my love?’

‘In here, angel.’

Crowley is chopping something, his back to the doorway. He’s borrowed a jumper which softens his sharply angled frame, his hair braided and out of the way while he cooks. He is, in Aziraphale’s opinion, nothing short of a work of art, temptation incarnate. Aziraphale’s heart squeezes impossibly tight and suddenly it is unbearable not to be moving towards him. He crosses the distance between them in three strides, Crowley yelping in surprise as Aziraphale closes his arms around him.

‘Fuck! Holding a knife here!’

Aziraphale squeezes Crowley tighter.

‘So sorry, my love, can you forgive me?’

Crowley leans back into the embrace.

‘I expect I can be persuaded.’

Aziraphale wants to laugh but he’s perilously close to sobbing and he can’t risk getting the two mixed up.

‘I’ve always been in awe of your generosity of spirit, my darling.’ 

‘Mmm,’ says Crowley, ‘Is it really generosity if I have every intention of ensuring it’s reciprocated?’

The words are playful but the tone is off somehow and Crowley makes no attempt to turn around.

‘Bad day?’ Aziraphale asks.

‘Not at all, haven't done much.’ Crowley raises his hands to hold onto Aziraphale’s arms. ‘What about you? Why are you home?’

That’s the question. Aziraphale’s excitement turns all of a sudden to nerves and he wishes he’d given himself a little more time to compose the answer.

‘I had a visitor.’

‘Oh?’ Crowley has grown very tense. ‘If that bloody baker is at it again, I’ll make him regret the day he was born.’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Aziraphale says, ‘You gave him quite the scare last time, dear. He hasn’t dared to look me in the eye since.’

Crowley does not relax.

‘Who was it then?’

‘Well, it’s quite the thing. I could hardly believe my eyes when she walked in, never thought I’d see her again.’

‘Who?’

This time Crowley’s question has bite to it and Aziraphale can tell he’s holding onto his patience by the thinnest of threads. Time to come clean.

‘Anathema.’

The grip of Crowley’s hands turns painful.

‘Don’t suppose there’s another one?’

‘No, darling.’

Crowley sags a little in his arms, strings cut, but recovers quickly. When he speaks, it is in a falsely calm tone.

‘So that’s that then. How did she find us?’

‘You can ask her tomorrow.’

At this Crowley spins around so fast Aziraphale is shocked he doesn’t give himself whiplash.

‘She knows about me?’

‘No! She still thinks you’re…’ Aziraphale can’t bring himself to say the word. ‘But I think once you hear the news she brought that you might wish to meet with her.’

Crowley says nothing to this, continues to scan Aziraphale’s face. He so often looks unbearably fragile even on the best day of winter but that fragility usually comes from a very different place. _Let this be good_ , Aziraphale thinks, _let him be glad._

‘Here,’ he says, and he retrieves the envelope Anathema had handed over. Crowley takes it from him slowly without breaking eye contact, still asking questions with those honey-gold eyes.

‘Read it,’ Aziraphale says and Crowley does.

It seems to take him a very long time. Long enough for Aziraphale to start making some very wild assumptions that are supremely unhelpful.

‘He’s dead,’ he says, unable to tolerate the tension any longer, ‘Gabriel’s gone. We don’t need to worry about him anymore. We don’t need to hide.’

Crowley hasn’t looked up. His eyes are no longer scanning the paper in front of him. He is completely still.

‘It’s a good thing,’ Aziraphale says, his voice rising, taking on an edge of hysteria, ‘It means we can…’

‘Get married!’ Crowley says at the exact moment Aziraphale says, ‘Stay here.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Aziraphale is quite sure he’s misheard but the next moment Crowley has flung the newspaper cutting aside and dropped to one knee.

‘Crowley, what are you…?’

‘Shut up,’ Crowley says, even as he takes Aziraphale’s hand gently in both of his, ‘Let me do this, okay?’

Aziraphale nods, eyes stretched wide. Part of him wants this moment to last forever but if Crowley doesn’t bloody well get on with it Aziraphale just knows he's going to start crying and ruin it.

‘Gabriel was the only thing stopping me from doing this,’ Crowley says hoarsely, ‘The _only_ thing, angel. Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted to? How much I love you?’

Aziraphale pretends to consider for a moment and then shakes his head with a wobbly smile. When Crowley laughs Aziraphale’s soul lights up, the same way it does every time. That laugh is still the best sound in the universe.

‘I’ll have to work on that,’ Crowley says, smiling up at him, ‘Marry me, anyway?’

Aziraphale pulls Crowley to his feet, crushes their lips together unable to stand being separated from him a second longer.

‘That a yes?’ Crowley asks, between kisses.

‘I might need some more persuasion.’

There’s that laugh again and Aziraphale is melting into Crowley’s touch. He dearly hopes the persuasion will take a good long while, long enough for Gabriel and Anathema and everyone else to slip from his mind. All he wants is this kiss, this glorious love, and the life they share. He owes all his happiness to his wonderful Crowley, his dearest darling who he has almost lost so many times.

‘Angel? Angel, it’s alright.’

Crowley kisses the first of Aziraphale’s traitorous tears away, presses their foreheads together, shushes him as he tries to apologise.

‘I r-really am h-happy,’ Aziraphale says, as more tears cascade down his face. They won’t stop and Aziraphale is losing his grasp on any semblance of calm.

The last few years have been marked by loss, the loss of his family, of jobs and fledgling identities and homes, of hope after hope. But this loss, the death of the Duke, means an end to looking over their shoulder, an end to the fear of discovery. They can keep the friends they’ve made here, their house and Crowley’s garden, the bookshop. They can have a wedding. A beginning.

‘S-spring.’

Crowley is wiping his tears away as fast as they can fall but he pauses to ask, ‘What was that?’

‘A spring w-wedding,’ Aziraphale manages, his words only hitching a little, ‘Would be lovely, d-don’t you think?’

The tears mean Crowley is a little blurry but it’s just as well, the sight of a crystal clear, full power Crowley grin might well have finished him off.

‘Whatever you want, angel. We’re free.’

Free. The word itself is tinged with magic and miracle.

‘I’d say this calls for a celebration,’ Aziraphale says, his hands sliding under loose layers to settle on Crowley’s waist, ‘I don’t suppose you’d be feeling well enough to…?’

Crowley’s eyes fill with bright hope. 

‘Fuck?’ he asks, moving so that as much of him is in contact with Aziraphale as possible. Aziraphale feels a ridiculous blush creep over him in response. How Crowley loves to do that to him.

‘I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.’

Crowley is biting his lip, staring hard at Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale knows that look, knows exactly what it means and it’s suddenly very difficult to concentrate on anything else.

‘Say it,’ Crowley says, low, breathless, ‘Say it just once and I’ll drop to my knees again right here, right now.’

Aziraphale cannot deny the effect this has on him even as he makes a show of rolling his eyes. Good Lord, how is it possible to love someone this much? 

Crowley is close enough to kiss, close enough that Aziraphale could quite easily whisper the single desired word into the perfect shell of his ear. He does want to and he will, he just needs a moment. He wants to remember this. 

They are together. 

They are free. 

And the rest of their life is about to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is art! Third one down in this [post](https://marbledwings.tumblr.com/post/622380979456262144/gemennair-thought-you-guys-would-like-to-see). Gemennair's art is so wonderful and her beautiful depiction of Aziraphale reading Crowley his poetry was the final push I needed to share this story. 
> 
> And I'm glad I did. 
> 
> Thank you for keeping me company. Thank you for keeping me going 💗.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @marbledwings on tumblr if you want to find me.


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